Double Lives

We all live double lives; the first 

Is what appears outside,

The way the world perceives us

As opposed to what we hide.

That outward part is what we wear

And say and how we act.

We’re judged by all our positives 

Or qualities we’ve lacked.

Our other life, though, is what flows 

Through arteries and veins

Plus, more important, what resides 

Inside our hearts and brains.

This second part may differ from

Its other half or not

And we may choose to share a little

Or, perhaps, a lot.

Relationships are based upon

The way we seem to be,

Yet just below the surface is

What others cannot see.

The Delacorte

For years we’ve gone to see the shows

Of Shakespeare in the Park,

Where magic happens in Manhattan

When the sky turns dark.

 

The theater where the plays are held

Is called the Delacorte,

Reopening this summer,

I am happy to report.

 

A renovation closed it down

But now it’s back for good

And boasts a new façade that’s made

From water tower wood.

 

“Twelfth Night” will start the season

With a most impressive cast,

An experience for those who go

That will be unsurpassed.

School Holidays

Today starts the Year of the Snake.

My grandkids were given a break

For schools were all closed

Since someone proposed

That to open would be a mistake.

 

Different holidays now get observed

(I’m not saying that they’re undeserved)

Yet for years there were few,

Just the ones we all knew,

And traditions were always preserved.

 

Varied cultures are claiming their due,

Though I’d bet not all schools share that view.

If there were a debate

On this topic, by state,

Change would happen in those that are blue.

Tuning Out

I tune out the news

Just as much as I can,

So I won’t have to hear

When the s*^# hits the fan.

 

But I still read the paper

And catch little bits

From the radio as every

Story transmits.

 

The migrants, the pardons,

The Congress, the Court –

Democracy fighting

But coming up short.

 

The voters who quoted

The prices of eggs,

Now twice as expensive,

The question now begs…

 

Just when will you realize

You’ve made a mistake?

The heart and the soul

Of our nation’s at stake.

 

It’s hard to accept

Just how low we have sunk

And I wonder why everyone’s

Not in a funk.

I tune out the news

Just as much as I can,

So I won’t have to hear

When the s*^# hits the fan.

 

But I still read the paper

And catch little bits

From the radio as every

Story transmits.

 

The migrants, the pardons,

The Congress, the Court –

Democracy fighting

But coming up short.

 

The voters who quoted

The prices of eggs,

Now twice as expensive,

The question now begs…

 

Just when will you realize

You’ve made a mistake?

The heart and the soul

Of our nation’s at stake.

 

It’s hard to accept

Just how low we have sunk

And I wonder why everyone’s

Not in a funk.

Eighty Years Ago

Eighty years ago, the horrors

Mesmerized the world 

As Nazi flags came down 

To never after be unfurled.

The captives held at Auschwitz,

Walking skeletons, at best,

Didn’t have to speak; their bodies

To their torture did attest.

It seemed incomprehensible,

But through the years I’ve learned

That people’s inhumanity 

Has somehow since returned.

Or, being more realistic,

It has never gone away

Nor ever will, until the planet’s

Final dying day.

Today, though, let us recognize 

And honor those who lost 

Either families or lives

At much too monstrous a cost.

*Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day

Corpse Flower

Who would wait in line to smell

A flower that’s so vile

Its odor reeks like rotting flesh,

Quite hard to reconcile

 

With all the other lovely plants

The Gardens* have on view?

I’m not sure I would make the trip

To check it out; would you?

 

This specimen, just one of four

To thrive in the U.S.

Has been here seven years, but never

Bloomed with full success.

 

Its smell will last for several days,

A putrid, corpse-like scent,

Yet strangely, all who waited

Were quite happy that they went.

 

*The Brooklyn Botanic Garden

Victory and Defeat

The winner of the women’s match,*

An absolute surprise,

Delighted all the fans who know

How hard she always tries.

 

In forty-nine attempts, she never

Had a Grand Slam win

And posing with her trophy,

She could not contain her grin.

 

The runner-up, whom everyone,

(Which did include herself)

Expected to go home and add

That trophy to her shelf,

 

Displayed, for all to see,

A rather nasty fit of pique.

She smashed her racket on the ground

While uttering a shriek.

 

She said she had to let off steam

And thus was cut some slack,

But as a pro, she should have known

To hold that anger back.

 

We’re only human, that is true,

Though athletes who compete

Should, in public, hold their heads high

With a win or in defeat.

 

*Australian Open

My Pencil's Waiting

My pencil’s waiting patiently

To transfer what I think

Onto pages in my notebook

(More erasable than ink).

 

It follows my commands and yet

The words are then erased,

Rejected for another round

With which they are replaced.

 

This No. 2 is not at fault

If I don’t want to write

Of sickness, aging or the news,

Or any other plight.

 

And thus I jot a little rhyme,

So I’m not out of joint,

To get my pencil working

For, of course, that is its point.

Moonstruck

I am waxing poetic

And hope I’m not straining

Credulity saying

My talent’s not waning.

 

It may be eclipsed by

Those poets ascendant

Whose words are celestial,

Deep and resplendent.

 

Yet tides keep on turning

And orbits expanding,

While moonbeams drift down,

Oh, so daintily landing.

 

The galaxy’s bursting

With work that amazes

And room for all poets

In all of their phases.

Ginger Ale

I don’t drink soda as a rule,

But when I’m sick, I’m not a fool –

I think of sick days as a kid

And do the things my mother did.

 

She served us soup and toast and tea

And baked potatoes, naturally,

And then, of course, was ginger ale,

A stomach balm that would not fail.

 

So that’s the diet I’ve imbibed,

Exactly as I’ve just described.

Yet here’s a fact that I found strange

About how ginger ale did change.

 

We had one old can – ordered more

And when they got here from the store,

The new ones tasted much less sweet,

The reason worth a quick repeat.

 

The older version said it had

140 calories – not bad.

The current cans have 1-3-0,

For sugar’s not the way to go.

 

The old one brought me to my youth.

The newer one, to tell the truth,

Just wasn’t worth it to my tongue –

Its praises I would not have sung.

 

So now I’ll stick to herbal tea

Or Gatorade until I see

That I am back and in the clear

To sip my coffee and my beer.

Our Priorities

In life we have priorities,

But when you’re feeling sick,

So much of what you care about

Drops down the list real quick.

 

Like how you look or what you wear

Or if your house is clean

Or if you move your car

So traffic cops won’t be on scene.

 

Or making plans to go away

Or maybe meet a friend

Or even watch that series so

You’ll get to see the end.

 

Of course, when you feel better,

Which you hope will happen fast,

Priorities will go right back

To your pre-sickness past.

A Virus

A virus takes your energy

And everything it saps

Results in lack of everything 

Except, of course, for naps.

So Sick

Today I’m feeling sick, so sick

I fear my rhymes won’t click or stick.

My husband got a viral curse

And passed it on to me, but worse…

I Didn't

I didn’t bring a charger.

I didn’t bring a snack.

I’m nervous ‘cause I’m texting you

And you’re not writing back.

 

The hospital is crowded;

You haven’t yet been seen.

You’re thirsty and I couldn’t help;

I think you think I’m mean.

 

I’m sitting in a waiting room,

Your sneakers in a bag.

I’m trying to stay calm, while

All my spirits start to sag.

 

This night will stretch for hours

As I sit alone and mope.

I feel like I don’t have the tools

That I will need to cope.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Right now it’s hours later.

I somehow made it through

And most important, I can breathe

Since, somehow, you did, too.

No Robert Frost

I know that I’m no Robert Frost;

I never claimed to be ‘im,

Yet that is not the reason why

I write a poem per diem.

The writing lets me tap inside

And reach my inner being,

Which, from the outside, no one’s really 

Capable of seeing.

It’s gratifying when I get

Some feedback on my rhyming,

Yet that’s not what I need to get

My self-assurance climbing.

It’s when I read back what I wrote

That fills me up with pleasure,

Though I might be the only one

Who sees it as a treasure.

Second Opinion

A second opinion may clarify things

Or possibly cause some confusion,

For doctors who do not agree will, no doubt,

Arrive at a different conclusion.

 

A patient must therefore decide who to trust

And to follow that recommendation,

Though when two so-called “experts” have differing views,

It makes sense to feel some hesitation.

 

It’s better, I guess, to have choices to make

And some down time before a decision,

For it helps to feel good with the doctor you choose

Way before you’re prepped for an incision.

Bagel Day

Hooray! Hooray! It’s Bagel Day!

Or so I’ve heard it said,

So substitute a bagel

For some ordinary bread.

 

Since many so-called “bagels”

Don’t have what it really takes

To be authentic, you may find

You’ve scarfed down lots of fakes.

 

Do not be fooled by circled dough

Around a center hole.

They must be dense and chewy

Like New York ones – that’s the goal.

 

Now other places have their fans,

(Hats off to Montreal!)

But some who serve a puffed-up version

Have a lot of gall.

 

To me, some seeds are needed -
Poppy, sesame and, too,

In pumpernickel, caraway,

And more than just a few.

 

A bagel’s a delicious treat

So eat it your own way,

But I need no reminding,

For I eat one every day!

Ring Tones

When choosing a ring tone,

Make sure it won’t grate

On your nerves or turn into

A sound that you hate.

 

They vary from gentle

To jarring or shrill,

While doing the job

They’re designed to fulfill.

 

We snap to attention

When hearing our phone,

So its ring should be one

We accept as our own.

Our Two Cents

On my mothers’ group Zoom,

Six of us in the “room,”

We remember what we used to do

When our babies would cry

Or, asleep, how they’d lie

And what helped us, back then, to get through.

 

What made us reminisce

Was, with grandkids now, this –

Things are not done the same way today

And our children, all grown,

With some kids of their own,

Think that they know the only right way.

 

It’s amazing, as well

As annoying as hell

To be criticized rather than praised

When we add our two cents

And our kids take offense,

Since it wasn’t by wolves they were raised.*

 

In the future, I hope,

That our children can cope

With the new rules their own kids will set

And they’ll protest that, no,

That’s not how things should go!

As for us? Oh, they’ll quickly forget.

 

*Thank you, Harriet, for that line…

A Variety of Hats

Throughout the years, my kids had

A variety of hats,

Along with all the books and dolls

And games and baseball bats.

 

A few were parts of costumes

Or vacation souvenirs,

While others served as props

For princesses or buccaneers.

 

Though most have long been cast away,

Some managed to hang on –

The pirate and top hats are here;

The cowboy hats are gone.

 

Yet still, I felt a little pang

When throwing out the trash

And there, with all the magazines

Was something from the stash.

 

A plastic Viking headpiece

With, on either side, a horn.

I have a photo of my son

From when that hat was worn.

 

It served its purpose and is now

Bashed up and way too small.

Though I felt sad to throw it out,

My son won’t care at all.

A Booth

To tell the truth, I love a booth

When eating in a diner.

You can’t dismiss such coziness

As something you’d call minor.

 

For it is clear that atmosphere

Adds much to meal-time pleasure

And booth-type seats improve your eats,

At least the way I’d measure.

 

Be careful, though, for in your row

If someone leaves the table,

You’ll have to rise and leave your fries,

Their exit to enable.

 

Still, such a nit does not one bit

Make booths lose their attraction.

Their cool appeal grants any meal

A certain satisfaction.

Never Really Knowing

Depending on the place you live,

The weather’s warm or cold.

Perhaps that’s why you moved there;

It’s the picture you’ve been sold.

But Mother Nature’s in control

And likes to mess around,

So conditions you’d expected

Might not be what you have found.

In the south they’re wearing sweaters

And the west is fighting fires,

Maybe changing someone’s mind of

Where to go when one retires.

Meanwhile, I adjust my wardrobe,

Wearing layers I can shed,

Never really knowing what will be

In days that lie ahead.

Funeral Conversation

At Jimmy Carter’s funeral

A senator exclaimed

He saw Obama “kiss the ring”

Of He-Who-Can’t-Be-Named.

 

I watched the clips and verified

The two of them conversed.

It was a bit surprising, but

It didn’t seem coerced.

 

Most others kept their distance,

Which is what I would have done,

For I’m sure I couldn’t cozy up

To someone I would shun.

 

Yet perhaps it’s just diplomacy

That people should expect,

But it’s hard for most to share a laugh

With one they don’t respect.

Sans Stilettos

Nancy took a tumble

And went falling down the stairs.

The slickness of the marble

Must have caught her unawares.

 

Yet who at 84 years old

Wears shoes with 4-inch heels?

Though since a hip replacement,

There’s a photo that reveals

 

That Pelosi, back at work,

Left her stilettos in the dust.

She’s sporting clogs, a look to which

She might have to adjust.

 

We all make compromises

As we ratchet up the years,

Though despite her new flat shoes,

She still will tower o’er her peers.

Possible Side Effects

The doc prescribed a medicine

To make my bones grow strong.

It seems they’ve lost some density

As life has rolled along.

 

I’ve had the pills for quite a while

But haven’t taken one,

For I’m afraid soon after,

Side effects will have begun.

 

I read what all the experts say

From clinics quite well-known –

The Mayo and the Cleveland,

Which report what tests have shown.

 

I’d be better off without the facts

These places have prepared,

For learning what can happen

Only makes me much more scared.

 

I’ll try some yoga and will boost

My calcium to still

Any qualms about my bones –

That seems much better than a pill.

Rising to the Challenge

My plant by the window is drooping;

Don’t know if it’s thirsty or cold.

In the mirror, my body is stooping,

More obvious as I grow old.

 

The radio needed replacing;

The static was driving us nuts.

The search for a couch I am facing

Needs testing with hips, backs and butts.

 

The snow that just fell was a dusting;

The weathermen got this one right.

To the new year I’m slowly adjusting,

To survive our political plight.

 

If we challenge ourselves with some rhyming

In an ABAB type of verse,

Then from out of despair we’ll start climbing;

For uplifting, you can do much worse.

Riding a Camel

A friend went to Morocco

And she rode a camel there.

I saw the photos and I wondered

If I’d take that dare.

 

Another pal’s in Egypt

And, on pictures she did post,

There she is atop a camel,

Looking happy and engrossed.

 

As a child I rode a camel

When I visited the zoo,

Where it walked around a circle

As it somehow learned to do.

 

Yet, to ride one in the desert,

Decades later, feeling old,

I’m not certain I could muster

What it takes to be so bold.

 

I am planning a vacation,

But the place I hope to go

Has no camels and no deserts,

So I guess I’ll never know.