Rival Brews

Local breweries abound

And in New York there can be found

Beers from Brooklyn and from Queens

And all the boroughs in-betweens.

 

My spouse and I, both city-born,

Love I.P.A.’s, so we were torn

About which brew would be the best,

So we devised a little test.

 

We purchase bottles and some cans

To see if we’d be equal fans

Of breweries from Brooklyn (me)

Or from the Bronx (his pedigree).

 

Though neither one deserved a rave,

The Hazy Bronx one was the fave

So I’ll concede it should be praised,

But I prefer where I was raised.

Too Soon to Flip

March should start tomorrow

But it’s leap year, so it won’t.

For anyone who wants to flip

The calendar, please don’t.

 

To women who are pregnant,

If your labor starts tonight,

You have ‘til midnight to give birth

Or face your child’s plight…

 

Since a birthday you can’t celebrate

Each year must be the worst,

Though I’m sure some celebrations

Could be switched to March the first.

Swinging

There’s no one in the playground

When I walk at break of day.

The jungle gyms are empty

Since no climbing’s underway.

 

The slides and swings are waiting

For the toddlers and the tots

Who, with nannies, moms or dads

Will later come to claim their spots.

 

And yet this morning, I observed

A woman swinging high,

Her legs a‘pumping with the force

To take her to the sky.

 

Her little dog sat patiently

Until her steam ran out,

A private moment to enjoy

With no one else about.

Heading Downtown by Subway

The escalator keeps descending;

Seemingly, it’s never-ending,

Taking riders deep into

The bowels of the earth.

Everyone around pretending

That they’re fine, of course, depending

On their circumstances and

Just what their time is worth.

 

When the platform’s reached, there’s waiting.

Scrolling signs are indicating

When the closest train will come –

That is, if you’re in luck.

Minutes tick by, generating

Lots more people congregating

But you’ve made your choice and now

It seems that you are stuck.

 

Finally, a revelation –

See the train approach the station.

As the doors glide open, people

Rush to get inside.

Find a seat or resignation

Will stay ‘til your destination.

Then at last you exit,

Having taken it in stride.

Beneath the Folds

Beneath the folds within the brains

Of some of us exist remains

Of early traumas, tucked away

And if we’re lucky, there they’ll stay.

 

Yet if we aren’t, they’ll sneak through

And possibly provide a clue

To why some triggers make us snap

As if we’ve stumbled on a trap.

 

That knowledge, though, won’t be enough

To call that bottled genie’s bluff

For once he’s gone, it’s time to deal

With what his breakout does reveal. 

The Price of Freedom

Flaco the owl, who’s been on the prowl

Since fleeing his home in the zoo,

Has met his demise, when his nocturnal eyes

Missed the building into which he flew.

 

Though at first people feared and it surely appeared

That he couldn’t exist on his own,

Yet he more than survived; many swore that he thrived

As his sightings and photos have shown.

 

But he’s run out of luck for despite all his pluck,

Something happened to throw him off course

And his fans who all cared now should all be prepared

To experience bouts of remorse.

 

Still, the question I’ll raise about Flaco’s last days

Is, though he might have lived very long,

Would he rather have aged in the zoo, being caged,

Or die free where wild creatures belong?

The Puerto Rican Band

The museum had a festive treat –

A Puerto Rican band,

With drums and one maraca,

Beats that we could understand.

 

The leader on the primo* drum

Explained about their style

And the only female taught a dance;

In just a little while…

 

We visitors all left our seats

And, following her moves,

We all (including little kids)

Soon found our special grooves.

 

Though I, the oldest dancer,

Would leave nobody impressed,

I enjoyed this unexpected fun,

As maybe you have guessed.

 

*the main drum, which set the rhythm

An Act of Love

This week’s a school vacation

And my grandkids are away,

Yet Hadley, 8.5 years old,

Connects with us each day.

 

They’re in a different time zone

So she FaceTimes when she wakes

And converses from the bathroom

For her sleeping parents’ sakes.

 

She fills us in on things she’s done

And places they have seen.

It’s wonderful to see her face,

All smiles, on my phone’s screen.

 

Her brother doesn’t care to talk

Unless it’s face to face,

But Hadley reaching out’s

An act of love we can embrace.

Indivisible

For years I’ve passed a sculpture

When I walk at break of day.

It’s very unobtrusive,

Likely meant to be that way.

 

It’s just one word carved out of wood

And tethered to a sign

Reminding people not to park

Or they’ll incur a fine.

 

The word is “indivisible”

And in the USA,

It’s front and center in the pledge

That schoolkids learn to say.

 

We’re meant to think our country

Is united and, with pride,

We pledge allegiance to the nation

Where we all reside.

 

But lately, we’re divided

Like an apple cut in two,

Each half belonging to a crowd

That’s cloaked in red or blue.

 

This week I found the sculpture gone

And I was not surprised;

Perhaps the artist figured out

His hope’s been compromised.

Shelter Drills

In school, we practiced what to do

In case there was a fire.

We’d quickly exit, silently,

As teachers would require.

 

But there were also shelter drills,

(I’m talking decades back)

Where we would hide in case there was

A nuclear attack.

 

We’d crawl beneath our desks and wait

Until the signal bell

Would chime to let us know

We could come out, since all was well.

 

I don’t know who decided

That this plan made any sense,

For from a bomb, a desk would not

Provide the best defense.

 

Yet nowadays, a drill won’t be

From any H-bomb threat,

But from kids with guns and that’s a fear

We haven’t conquered yet.

Fulfilling the Command

On a bench in the sun,

With the river close by,

I can get something done

(Or at least I can try).

 

For out here I unwind

As I soak up the rays

And I’m likely to find

Something I can appraise.

 

With my pencil in hand

And a notebook page, blank,

I fulfill the command,

With the river to thank,

 

That I jot down a poem

(Which is almost complete).

Now it’s time to head home;

There’s some popcorn to eat.

Crumby

When you’re eating a cookie

Or pastry or cake

Or any sweet offering

Someone did bake

 

There are bound to be crumbs

On your plate left behind

(For the ones for whom finger-licks

Are too refined).

 

Though if crumbs fall from something

Delicious to taste,

It’s a shame to let tidbits

Like those go to waste.

 

Which is why I don’t get,

Since such morsels are yummy,

Why something not good

Is referred to as crummy.

Queen Mary's Doll House

Queen Mary had a doll house

Which is currently on view.

It was one hundred years ago

It made its grand debut.

 

With running water, working lifts,

Electric lights and art,

The house sounds so amazing

I don’t quite know where to start.

 

A thousand mini works of art,

Five hundred mini books

And furniture and silver

All deserving second looks.

 

A pair of throne chairs and, of course.

Some miniature crown jewels,

A bicycle, real food and soap

And pots and pans and tools.

 

A tiny vacuum can be pushed,

A piano can be played,

Embroidered sheets are on the beds,

Pure luxury displayed.

 

A cellar holds champagne and gin

And whiskey, plus fine wine;

The ceilings, walls and rugs throughout

Are regal by design.

 

This doll house was a gift but not

Intended for a child.

Queen Mary, in her 50’s,

Was delighted and beguiled.

 

If Windsor Castle’s in your plans,

Then stop and pay a visit

To this doll house, just like yours or mine,

But slightly more exquisite.

Tom Petty Radio

On Sirius Radio, we have the chance 

To listen to singers who’ve died,

For some have their stations, which serve to enhance

All the music they once did provide.

So after they’ve passed, we’ve been given the choice

To keep listening, not to just songs,

But to whole conversations in that well-known voice 

Which to our favorite singer belongs.

We are lucky technology lets us embrace

Someone’s talent, long after they’re gone.

Though the radio can’t ever fully replace

What’s been lost, still the music lives on.

Old Poems

I’m reading old poems that I wrote;

(Most are wonderful, if I can gloat!)

Many capture events

That my old brain prevents

Recollecting, from times now remote.

 

I’m remembering travels and days,

Each occasion my writing portrays,

That I thought I’d forgot

But apparently not

For when written, the memory stays.

Two Mourning Doves

Outside my ninth floor window

Where the A/C unit sits,

Two mourning doves appeared

And it delighted me to bits.

 

They’ve never visited before

And didn’t stay too long.

I missed the opportunity

To hear their mournful song.

 

These birds, I’ve read, will mate for life

And if they drop on by,

Then hope and peace and also love

Their presence does imply.

 

Though I’m skeptical of folklore,

I won’t argue that the signs

Point to pleasant, hopeful tidings

From these feathered Valentines.

Snowpocalypse

They closed the schools; said, “Stay at home.

No need to move your car.

A major storm’s expected

So remain just where you are.”

 

Yet in Manhattan, even though

The snow came swirling down,

It barely dusted roofs of cars.

(At least this part of town)

 

The gym was opened six hours late

And few were on the streets,

For everyone fell victim to

The weatherfolks’ conceits.

 

By 1 p.m., the snow had stopped

And temps were rising fast,

The sun was peeking through because

Snowpocalypse* had passed.

 

I know that other areas

Have lots more snow to plow,

But in the city, all that snow

(And hype!) is gone by now.

 

*Thanks to Mike D. for introducing me

to this cool word.

Money Talks

I watched the Super Bowl, of course,

And made it ‘til the end.

The game was great, although

I’m not a fan and won’t pretend.

 

The show’s commercials usually

Are fun and worth a look,

But this year’s disappointed;

Just a glance was all it took.

 

For several were religious

And were very in your face.

To me, such ads did not belong

In such a time and place.

 

But money talks and anyone

With lots of bucks to pay

Can purchase airtime, hoping

That some minds they’ll get to sway.

Cowboys

My brother and I shared a bedroom

With cowboys on every wall.

Though we’re three years apart

Our connection did start

While our baby bro slept down the hall.

 

My memories don’t have much info

Of the time that we spent in that room,

But since we got along

I don’t think I’d be wrong

Saying we were content (I’d assume).

 

When the crib for our sib got confining,

Rooms were switched; gender came into play.

I would guess that our mother

Thought brother and brother

Would both take to the cowboy display.

 

So I got my own room, but I wonder,

Did I miss my first roommate a bit?

Maybe yes, maybe no;

It was so long ago,

But years later, I have to admit

 

That a kinship formed so very early,

If you’re lucky, holds fast in the heart.

For your birthday today,

Burt, though you’re far away,

Think of cowboys, where we had our start.

At A Craft Fair

At a craft fair, people’s projects

Proudly are displayed,

So would-be customers can stop

To see what they have made.

 

From jewelry to knitted hats,

To paintings, quilts and soaps,

The crafters eye each passerby;

A stop will raise their hopes.

 

I feel a little bad if I

Slip by with just a glance

And sense that if I do so,

I’ll receive some looks askance.

 

Yet if I show some interest

They’re prepared to make a sale

And if that doesn’t happen,

Disappointment will prevail.

 

I like to go to craft fairs

Though I often wonder why,

For I leave there feeling guilty

If there’s nothing I must buy.

The Valentine Aisles

The pharmacy chain

Has their heart-shaped balloons

To attract you in front of the store,

Though the few that remain

Will not last many moons

But don’t worry, for there’s so much more.

Chocolate candies abound 

Sold in boxes and tins,

Plus some sweets of the non-cocoa type.

Teddy bears can be found

And, as every head spins,

There is plenty to kick up the hype.

There are Valentine cards,

There are bracelets and socks,

There are earrings and headbands galore,

So to give your regards,

Opportunity knocks,

With more stuff sold than ever before. 

Sangria

To celebrate a special day,

I went out with my spouse,

Having dinner in a place we like

A few blocks from our house.

 

My drink of choice is beer

But they do not serve IPA’s*

So Sangria’s what I get,

Reminding me of college days.

 

For on weekends when we partied,

There would always be a bowl

Filled with cut-up fruit and Yago;**

Getting tipsy was the goal.

 

Though I drink now just with dinner

And it’s usually a brew,

At this restaurant, Sangria’s

What I sip and one will do.

 

Yet I think back rather fondly

Of my early drinking years,

When Sangria and tequila

Were what I drank with my peers.

 

*India Pale Ale

**a brand of Sangria

In the Blink of an Eye

I worry and then wonder why,

When I’m going away on a trip,

For it ends in the blink of an eye

And that agita adds up to zip.

 

Yet you can’t really change who you are –

If you’re nervous right down to your core,

Then wherever you go, near or far,

You’ll be anxious, at times less or more.

 

I just wish, since I know time does fly,

That’s a lesson I could take to heart,

But to think of the blink of an eye

Is a very good place I can start.

When I Was a Chambermaid

When I was twenty-two and lived

In Israel for a spell,

I needed cash and got a job

In a small seaside hotel.

We worked in teams to clean the rooms;

We vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed -

The hardest work I’d ever done

(‘Til teaching, when I subbed).

One little tidbit I recall

Involved the bathroom goals -

Fresh towels, washcloths, bath mat

And new toilet paper rolls.

We never left a started roll

Nor tissue box half-filled,

For seeing something someone used

Would make guests less than thrilled.

I doubt if that’s the case today.

Though I don’t really care, 

In my current hotel bathroom,

Two half-rolls were hanging there.

Home-Cooked

My sister had us over

For a special home-cooked meal,

With sauce and pasta made from scratch -

To me, a real big deal.

When we arrived, upon a nifty

Plastic-armed display

Were fresh-made noodles, gently draped,

With lots more on the way.

We watched as sheets of dough were placed

Into a cool machine

Which my sister cranked until, Voila!

The noodles could be seen.

Upon the stove, a giant pot

Was bubbling away

With sauce made from tomatoes

She had crushed that very day.

The dinner was delicious -

Meatballs rounded out the deal -

And I marveled at the effort made

To serve us such a meal.

Dinner in Florida

The waitress was clueless,

The noise level high

And two of us waited for meals,

While the rest of us, hungry,

Did gingerly eat,

Yet still, restaurant dining appeals…

For we all sat together

And ate what we liked -

I had fries with my sandwich and beer;

When you’re visiting family,

You gather around

And enjoy having everyone near.

My JetBlue Flight

I’m on an A320.

It’s a plane that isn’t new,

So everything on board is old

Except, of course, the crew.

The little TV screens don’t work

Nor do the reading lights.

There’s no place to plug chargers,

Quite unusual for flights.

The seats are full and I could kvetch

Much more, without a doubt,

But I’ll be fine as long as

Windows don’t start popping out.

Two Groundhogs

Two groundhogs, the focus of news,

Saw no shadows, according to crews

Who were filming to learn

What they’d hoped to discern

About how long we’d pay winter’s dues.

Lack of shadows means we should prepare 

For an earlier spring, if we dare,

Since predictions by Chuck*

And/or Phil* count on luck

More than science, we should be aware.

Still, it’s great that this year they agree,

Though of course, there is no guarantee

Nature does what she should

So some rodents look good,

Even if it was shown on TV.

*Staten Island Chuck and Punxsutawney Phil

X-Rays

My husband needed X-rays

Since he fell and hurt his wrist.

Turns out there was no fracture

But there was a little twist.

 

You ever break a bone there?

Asked the doctor, ‘cause we see

What looks to be, in that same spot,

A years-old injury.

 

A buried memory emerged,

My spouse at age 13,

While playing basketball, got hurt;

His bone was broken clean.

 

The wounds we suffer in our lives

We might think we’re concealing,

Yet they remain a part of us,

Despite extended healing.