Our grandson wanted us to see
The
Audubon Preserve,
With
meadows, trails and trees
That
birds and humans all deserve.
His
dad and sister joined us
And
we took a lovely hike,
The
shady paths and birdsong
Hard
for someone not to like.
We
spotted dragonflies and frogs,
A
turtle on a rock
And
lots of birds on branches,
Just
the perfect place to flock.
We
loved to be a part of
Such
a pleasant afternoon
And
hope to check out other trails,
All
happy, very soon.
At 3 p.m. in every state,
All
buglers, young and old,
Will
join to play a tune which
On
this date has oft consoled.
The
song is 24 notes long
And
“Taps” is what it’s named.
Its
poignant sound reminds us
Of
the soldiers death has claimed.
Memorials
ensure that those
Whom
war of life’s deprived
Will
live on in the hearts of
Friends
and family who’ve survived.
Across
our country, where the flames
Of
hatred are ignited,
The
buglers playing “Taps” today
Give
cause to be united.
To write like me, you wouldn’t
And not because you shouldn’t
But probably you couldn’t
Since our brains are each unique.
You might adapt my rhyming
And possibly my timing,
Though paths you think you’re climbing
To my mind won’t let you peek.
The styles that we’ve created
Cannot be imitated,
A truth that’s been debated
Back since critics learned to speak.
Sometimes we get stuck in place
And
all the dreams we used to chase
Have
vanished, so it’s time to face
The
fact our world has shrunken.
The
plans and goals we’d once embrace
Have
left without a single trace
And
looking forward, we must brace
For
hopes, once high, now sunken.
However,
there’s a saving grace –
We
simply have to slow our pace
As
lofty futures we erase,
Not
letting any funk in.
Make it easy on yourself
And they won’t think you’re mean.
Let the grandkids, home from school,
Indulge in time on screen.
In their younger days they’d love
To cuddle up and read
Or play or build or run around -
We’d gladly fill that need.
But now they’re old enough to want
To research or compete
By using tablets or a Switch
To make their day complete.
Like other grown-ups in their lives,
Allow them, quite excited,
To slip into their worlds on screen,
To which we’re not invited.
A sailboat’s sailing sans the sail.
It’s
like a mailman with no mail
Or
like a snail shell with no snail;
It’s
kind of incomplete.
A
hipster salad with no kale,
A
children’s shovel with no pail,
A
doctor’s office with no scale,
A
bird without a tweet.
A
hammer waiting for a nail,
A
dog without a wagging tail,
A
bride without a wedding veil,
All
visions of defeat.
By
now you think that I should bail
Before
my words start getting stale,
So
since I do not like to fail,
I’ll
beat a fast retreat.
We’ll never understand what makes
A
random gunman tick.
To
shoot a stranger does imply
That
person must be sick.
Yet
even if that is the case,
There
should be in the brain
A
message getting through demanding
That
he should refrain.
A
bunch of people shopping
Or
a rider on the Q
Or
a class of 4th-grade students –
Not
a one of them who knew…
That
his life would soon be over;
There’d
be no more stress or fun,
All
because of one sick person
Who
had access to a gun.
The pigeon’s in a hurry,
Taking
rapid mincing steps.
He
must be going somewhere
Though
there’s nothing that he schleps.
Perhaps
he’s late for something.
We
can’t know the reason why,
But
he’s surely in a hurry;
Why,
oh, why will he not fly?
If caution is the side on which
You are supposed to err,
It’s possible to overdo it,
So you should beware.
It may be better letting time
Or nature take its course
And then you wouldn’t suffer from
Annoyance or remorse.
There is a line to draw between
What’s prudent and what’s dumb,
But sometimes fear kicks in and makes
It easy to succumb.
Under the shed is a groundhog,
Living without my consent.
Once in a while he emerges;
His presence I’ve come to resent.
Likely he’s dug a deep burrow
And most of the time he’s away.
I don’t think that I can evict him;
It seems like he’s planning to stay.
In previous years we’ve had foxes,
With kits that would frolic and romp,
But this year we’re stuck with a groundhog,
Whose lumbering gait’s more a clomp.
After the rain, there are puddles;
After the rain, there are worms.
There might be some salamanders
Venturing out on the berms.
After the rain, some see rainbows;
After the rain, some see slugs.
There might be dripping umbrellas
Soaking your floors or your rugs.
After the rain, plants are happy;
After the rain might come sun.
Then there’s a time we’ll be waiting
Until the next cycle’s begun.
The dollhouse was a gift from us
For Chanukah, one year.
Our grandkids played a lot with it
And that’s why it’s still here.
On Fridays, when we babysit
(Thought mostly they’re in school)
I do a bit of straightening,
But just in minuscule.
For I like when the dollhouse
Has its furniture all neat
And every little figure’s
In a bed, a crib or seat.
I rarely find it that way
And the dolls might be misplaced
But I make it look the way
My childhood self would have embraced.
Some people travel;
Some
people don’t.
Many
take risks;
Many
others just won’t.
Some
rise at dawn,
Many
others at noon.
Some
put things off;
Others
do things too soon.
Some
folks are slobs,
Many
others are neat.
Some
like things salty;
Others
like sweet.
Some
prefer coffee
While
others drink tea.
No
one’s exactly
Like
you or like me.
Some
folks will read this;
Most
never will.
Each
of us has
Our
own bucket to fill.
A baby cries, the ferry toots;
A
dog will not stop yapping.
A
sparrow chirps, the traffic hums;
A
flag is gently flapping.
A
jogger’s footfalls pound the path;
A
motorboat goes chugging.
A
barge, though large, makes quiet splashes
With
its tugboat tugging.
Bits
of conversations drift;
A
radio starts blasting.
Urban
peace is something that
You
cannot count on lasting.
Still,
out on the esplanade,
In
sunshine, all is pretty,
As
here I sit and listen to
The
soundtrack of the city.
How delightful to sit at a table
Out-of-doors
with a friend having lunch,
Catching
up on the latest since last time,
Trading
stories between every munch.
With
a breeze and a sun-block umbrella,
Watching
all types of people pass by,
It’s
the loveliest way of connecting
And
I guess you can understand why.
The wind picks up, the clouds roll in;
A
storm, real soon, may yet begin.
The
river roils, the birds steer clear,
Confirming
that it’s coming near.
And
still I sit, as others stroll,
The
day still firmly in control.
The
forecast may, in fact, be wrong,
As
some suspected all along.
The
blue’s receding from the sky;
A
single boat goes chugging by
And
if, indeed, some rain we’ll get,
The
worst will be I’ll run home wet.
Today’s my daughter’s birthday.
She
has so-called “special needs.”
Each
year, she gives a list of gifts
She
wants; my husband heeds.
I
also add some extra things
I
think might hit the spot.
A
word search book of rock & roll
She
seemed to like a lot.
A
t-shirt with her birthday year,
Some
leggings with designs,
But
there is one thing after which
She
always always pines.
A
teddy bear! She owns so many
She
needs not one more,
Yet
that’s the gift above all others
She
is waiting for.
And
luckily for her, her brother
Found
a “birthday bear.”
With
party hat and cupcake,
It’s
a bear beyond compare.
Her
group home made a party
Which
she loved, Hawaiian style,
But
her birthday bear was what produced
The
biggest birthday smile!
The dance recital showcased
Hip-hop, jazz and yes, ballet.
The costumes and the music
Put much talent on display.
From pre-schoolers up to college,
All their hard work guaranteed
That they’d entertain us beautifully
And they sure did, indeed.
We were focused on our grandkid
And she nailed her every move,
Smiling ear to ear as we were
Watching her get in the groove.
For my first time in a theater
Since we first felt Covid’s bite,
I was thrilled with this production,
Such an absolute delight.
In the theater, Ms. Patti LuPone
Asked some patrons, who’d certainly known,
To adjust, what did look
Like not quite by-the-book
Masks on faces so noses weren’t shown.
They refused so she told them to go,
Using language which all of us know.
They did angrily say,
“We your paycheck do pay!”
Her response made my praise for her grow.
Let all those who can’t follow the rules
Be called out when they’re acting like tools.
In the theater that means
One of Broadway’s top queens
May expose them for what they are - fools!
A dozen ducks were bobbing
On the river - what a sight!
The fact that there were 12 of them
Just filled me with delight.
If there had just been 2 or 3
I’d not have been impressed
And, at first glance, a dozen
Wasn’t what I would have guessed.
Of course I counted! Now, when thinking
Dozens, one supposes,
I should add ducks to Christmas days
And bagels, eggs and roses.
Between the ups and downs there is
A place that’s smooth and flat
And that is where, for most of us,
Our lives are mainly at.
So many choose to fix it up
As cozy as a nest,
Creating a retreat as an
Escape when we are stressed.
Or just a spot to pass the time
While waiting for the highs,
Or prepping for the worst so lows
Won’t come as a surprise.
The ups and downs don’t last too long
And when they’ve left the scene,
It’s comforting returning to
The place that’s in-between.
The voluntary gardeners
Placed
signs along the fence
Announcing
that they’d given up,
Despite
their best intents.
“We
can’t maintain this lawn because,
Though
signage says No Pets,
The
owners let their dogs run wild,
Displaying
no regrets.”
Perhaps
these words have hit the mark
As
those in charge have dealt
A
reprimand that’s harsh enough
For
guilt to have been felt.
For
lately, there have not been any
Pets
upon that lawn,
Though
it may be too late for any
Grass
to grow upon.
Across the river there’s a bridge
With
traffic slowly driving,
Cars
and trucks en route to where
They’ll
later be arriving.
Across
the river buildings stand
In
which some folks are living,
Oblivious
to the attention
I,
right now, am giving.
Across
the river boats chug by,
Their
wakes of foam a’trailing.
I
watch their progress from behind
A
black protective railing
Across
the river there are those
Who
might be gazing, sighting
A
person sitting on a bench,
Across
the river, writing.
On Mothers’ Day the roses sell
And
restaurants are full, as well.
In
many cases, you can tell
That
it’s an obligation.
For
in our hearts, where feelings dwell,
The
calendar should not compel
Us
to succumb to Hallmark’s spell
To
pledge our adoration.
The bride was really lovely
And her face was all a’glow.
Her beaded dress was
fitted
So her pregnancy did
show.
And yet she danced and
partied
With her unborn baby
boy.
As she laughed and
kicked her heels up,
We were caught up in
her joy.
Years ago, it might
have mattered
And the truth tucked ‘neath
the dress
Or the wedding date
moved backward
So perhaps no one would
guess.
Yet the bride and groom
were thrilled
As were their friends
and all their kin
There to celebrate
their marriage
And their waiting son
within.
My favorite tennis player’s
Near
the end of his career,
Which
his current match is making,
To
all viewers, crystal clear.
His
opponent, who is winning,
Is
quite nearly half his age,
Making
moves with which the crowd
Is
more than happy to engage.
The
fans are still supportive
Of
my hero, as am I.
There
is talent yet within him
But
the years are passing by.
He
was once a brash young upstart
And
I’ve rooted for him since,
Though
the king someday (not yet!)
Must
pass his title to the prince.
The elevator took its time,
A long delay on 3
And when it hit the lobby,
This is what confronted me:
Two men, their arms all wrapped around
What I believed to be
A covered piece of furniture,
As far as I could see.
I almost joked that it appeared
To look like someone dead,
But when I saw the stretcher,
Well, it filled my mind with dread.
I turned around; the doorman
Caught my eye and shook his head.
The message got through clearly,
Though the details weren’t said.
I’ve lived there over 40 years
And other tenants died.
I’d never seen one take
That final elevator ride,
I’m reading a book on my phone,
A
habit I’d never condone
Before
libraries closed
And
my source, I supposed,
Of
new novels had left me alone.
But
my Kindle, a gift from my son,
Meant
my reading-on-screen had begun.
Through
the library’s site
I
found, to my delight,
I
could read ‘til my eyelids were done.
Certain
books could appear with an app
On
my phone with an opening tap
So
wherever I go
It’s
a pleasure to know
There
are stories for me to unwrap.
It takes two to make a baby
But
the women bear the brunt
Yet
for reasons that confound me,
It’s
the men who most confront.
They
just plant a seed and vanish
While
not caring for a whit
If
they’ve left behind a token
And
what will become of it.
So
the females must contend with
Something
growing which may be
Not
a part of what they’d wanted
And
with which they don’t agree.
Now
the law allows reversal
Of
what might be a mistake
Letting
women make decisions
Which
should be their own to make.
Let
the Court step back and ponder
Why
this ruling must be banned
When
so many now will suffer
With
a pregnancy unplanned.
All
of those who think abortion
Shouldn’t
ever be allowed
Should
be happy having babies
And
live up to what they’ve vowed.
But
for women in this country
Who’ve
been guaranteed a voice
In
the workings of their bodies,
They
deserve to have a choice.
I grew up with a parakeet
And
dog, both loyal pets.
We
also had a turtle,
‘Bout
as homey as it gets.
My
single days when I moved out
Were
petless by design.
I
relished all the freedom
(Like
to travel), which was mine.
Once
married I was stunned the day
My
husband found a cat.
He
brought it home with litter box
And
food and that was that.
She
lived with us for several years
And
then got sick and died.
Our
kids arrived and with no pets
We
all seemed satisfied.
I
don’t regret my lack of pet
And
yet I understand
Why
people feel the need for them,
A
comfort close at hand.
Still,
all the effort that’s required –
The
walks, the food, the vet –
Reminds
me why I’m quite content
To
live without a pet.
I’m used to walking at a clip
The
opposite of slow,
The
kind of speed New Yorkers use
To
get where they must go.
Meandering
is not my thing
So
I don’t have a clue
When
people choose the scenic route;
That
simply will not do.
My
aging hadn’t stopped me from
My
rapid urban pace
Until
my knee decided it
Would
put me in my place.
So
now I notice older folk
With
walkers or a cane
And,
just like them, I’m moving slowly,
Fighting
off the pain.
It
could be much, much worse, I know
And
it can yet improve
But
I will not be happy ‘til
I’m
in that city groove.
