Topsy-Turvy

The world is topsy-turvy

And from what I can observe,

There’s so much that can unnerve me;

Every pitch thrown is a curve.

 

So much time I spend conversing

Focuses on things adverse.

In despair I keep submersing

And it just keeps getting worse.

 

Yet today, the sun is shining

And I’m feeling fit and fine,

So I’ll take a break from whining

And I’ll stick to the benign.

 

There is music, there is reading;

There are pathways to proceed

And if hope is what I’m needing,

I can find some, guaranteed.

The New Yorker

The New Yorker is having a birthday –

It’s made it to one hundred years.

With each story, cartoon, poem or essay,

It’s jump-started many careers.

 

Despite what it’s called, you can buy it

At newsstands or else go on line

And subscribe – since my brother did try it,

He gets his in the mail before mine!

 

Colorado is where he is living;

We both read it and then we discuss

All the articles that it keeps giving

To curious people like us.

 

I have some complaints – sometimes writing

Prattles on many pages too long

And most poems, instead of delighting,

Make no sense and I don’t think I’m wrong.

 

Yet I’m happy for every arrival,

With a crossword to tackle, as well,

And I hope its continued survival

Will outlast those whom truth would dispel.

Not Fancy

To tickle my fancy,

I like places plain.

From fancy environments,

I must abstain.

 

The same goes for clothing

And housewares and food.

For anything showy,

I’m not in the mood.

 

I sometimes like funky

And whimsy is cool,

But gaudy or flashy

I would overrule.

 

I don’t want things boring

Or sterile or bland,

Yet there’s lots of room

Between tepid and grand.

 

I thrive in the middle,

For deep in my gut,

I’m far from a pedigree,

More like a mutt.

Morons

At the auction house, I wandered

Through the rooms where, on display,

Were the artworks to be sold to those

Who can afford to pay.

 

One that made me laugh by Banksy,

Whose identity’s unknown,

Was a screen print titled “Morons,”

Which somebody soon will own.

 

It depicts a fancy auction,

Based on one that sold Van Gogh,

But instead of flowers in a frame,

A message lets us know:

 

“I can’t believe you morons

Really pay to buy this shit.”

(For rhythm’s sake, I’ve altered it,

But just a little bit.)

 

It will likely sell for millions;

The collectors all can thank

Banksy for his humor, as he laughs

The whole way to the bank.

What's My Line

My husband and I watch a show

Which was aired quite a long time ago –

In 1955;

(Were you even alive?)

Think of all that those folks didn’t know!

 

For a panel of four had to guess

Occupations, so they would address

Guests with questions for clues

About topics they’d choose

To be answered with “No” or with “Yes.”

 

Certain jobs were exotic back then,

Like “psychiatrist” (strictly for men)

Or a skunk-breeding guy

Or a worm raiser (why?)

Which led up to the big moment when…

 

It was time for the mystery guest,

Who would leave everybody impressed;

So the panel was masked

For, of course, they were tasked

With a name-that-celebrity quest.

 

In the days before Google and such,

Which today is a much-needed crutch,

Simple games could be played

And intelligence weighed

In a manner with which we’ve lost touch.

Between the Pauls

Between the Pauls, there were some laughs

From some with valued autographs

And glimpses of the former staffs

Of Saturday Night Live.

 

Some old routines brought up to date,

Including some just second-rate,

Performed to help to celebrate

What’s managed to survive.

 

Paul Simon started with a song

To which we all could sing along

And with a voice no longer strong,

For harmony he’d strive.

 

Sir Paul, the final singing guest,

In dapper shirt and jet-black vest,

Despite his lessened pipes, impressed,

The audience alive.

 

For fifty years of SNL,

We’ve watched careers it helped propel

And since this wasn’t a farewell,

We hope it long may thrive.

The Gulf

To visit the Gulf of America,

In case you get the notion,

You might fly over what’s now called

The Mar-a-Lago Ocean.

 

Be sure to click your seatbelt,

For when using this portation,

(The “trans” has been removed)

You’ll pass a bright red once-great nation.

 

Get your brand-new passports ready

For the agents are quite brusque

And you might just get deported

To a planet now named Musk.

 

What once was Mars is filled with

Crowds of migrants (oh, such noise!),

Lining up to use the bathrooms

Clearly labeled Girls or Boys.

 

There’s a huge arena filled with

Those with polio or mumps,

For there are no more vaccines,

Which Junior argued were for chumps.

 

While back on earth, the military

(Minus gays and gals)

Is patrolling Mar-a-Gaza,

Filled with Donald’s kiss-ass pals.

 

And in Congress, the Republicans,

With joyfulness, cavort,

Knowing that, no matter what,

They’ll have the backing of the Court.

 

For those of us remaining,

We can mutually mope

Or reclaim the Gulf of Mexico,

With just a thread of hope.

Coming Down

Make no mistake – though it looks fake,

The snow is coming down

And every flake will help to make

On cars a snowy crown.

 

Yet on the news, the weather crews

Predict a change to rain,

So kids will lose their avenues

For sleddable terrain.

 

We never know just how much snow

From Nature will abound,

Yet blow by blow, the radio

Will track what’s on the ground.

Memory's Gaze

On Valentine’s Day

Back when I was a kid,

This, I recall, is

What my father did.

 

He brought me a heart

Filled with chocolates inside

And chocolate cigars

He’d my brothers provide.

 

I guess for my mom

There was candy as well,

But that wasn’t something

On which I would dwell.

 

A gift from my dad

Was a rare kind of treat

Which, to memory’s gaze,

Still remains very sweet.

The Kennedy Center

The Kennedy Center is known to the world

For honoring those in the arts –

From Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie, Astaire,

Whose talents top all of the charts.

 

Sinatra, Gene Kelly, L. Bernstein, Kazan

And Benny and Lena and Merce,

Ray Charles, Lucille Ball, Isaac Stern and George Burns,

The list both profound and diverse.

 

Belafonte and Ailey and Hepburn and Peck,

Gillespie and Sondheim, the Who;

Aretha and Dylan and Kander and Ebb,

Judith Jamison, Chuck Berry, too.

 

Baryshnikov, Quincy, Paul Simon and Cash,

Warren Beatty, James Taylor and Cher;

Tina Turner and Spielberg and Barbra and Tharp,

Yo Yo Ma, Dustin Hoffman – all there.

 

Al Pacino and Elton, De Niro and Streep,

Lily Tomlin, Santana and Sting;

LL Cool J and Reba and Joni, Mel Brooks,

Lionel, Dick Van Dyke, Carole King.

 

There are more I’ve not mentioned, but going ahead,

It is going to be quite a shock

When the Kennedy Center will honor, perhaps,

Village People or maybe Kid Rock.

 

Oh, I fear for this country in so many ways

And it feels we’ve been stabbed in our hearts

With the Kennedy Center now being run

By a man with no stake in the arts.

In the Waiting Room

An hour in the waiting room –

You look around and see

All kinds of folks in varied states

Of some uncertainty.

 

The old and feeble being wheeled

By aides providing care

And little babies, so you wonder

Why they’re even there.

 

The TV blasts and kiosks wait

For people to check in,

Anxiety on all the faces

Like a second skin.

 

And one by one, the names are called,

Abandoning their seats,

To shuffle off while new ones come;

The cycle then repeats.

 

It’s rare to see a smile

Or an expression of relief,

For stress and fear combine to form

The waiting room motif.

The Half-Time Show

The half-time show was well-rehearsed

And those who watched it all concurred,

Though I’m not sure if Kendrick cursed;

I didn’t understand a word.

 

There was a message; what it was

Perhaps the younger crowd did get,

But in between the hype and buzz,

One note made me a bit upset.

 

I know for years it wasn’t right

When chorus lines did not include

Performers who did not look white,

Despite the talent they’d exude.

 

Yet now the pendulum has swung,

But way too much; it hasn’t found,

Among those who have danced and sung,

An integrated middle ground.

 

The times are changing, as they tend

To do, yet progress will reverse

If entertainment won’t extend

To casts and crews who are diverse.

Penny Ante

No longer will a penny

For your thoughts make any sense,

Since there will not be any

Pennies left to thus dispense.

 

A penny saved, a penny earned –

Advice that represents

Frugality cannot be learned

Without the evidence.

 

From heaven, pennies won’t rain down

And that’s a consequence

Of a would-be king who lacks a crown

But rules at our expense.

All in Context

The sledding hill was crowded

And I thought, as I walked by,

How expressions can mean different things,

Which age can magnify.

 

For when someone says of sledders,

“They are going downhill fast,”

That same statement, for a senior,

Does a darker shadow cast.

 

And the same applies to “tubing,”

Which my grandkids just enjoyed –

Quite a contrast to the post-op tubes

Which have got my spouse annoyed.

Written

I’m not good with directions

If they’re not in written form.

My brain cannot retain them;

I don’t know if that’s the norm.

 

So whether it’s instructions

For a project or a meal

Or a way to get from here to there

By train or at the wheel…

 

Or the steps involved to tie a knot

Or scarf around the neck,

My attempts to follow explanations

Just make me a wreck.

 

Yet, when there’s an outline listed

On a paper I can read,

I at least will understand the ways

In which I can proceed.

 

I once read, it’s either left or right,

The way our brains are wired,

But whichever way is mine, I know

The written word’s required.

Fifty Years Ago

Fifty years ago we met

And haven’t killed each other yet.

The only thing that I regret

Is that our time is waning.

 

We’ve raised our kids and had careers

And sat with friends for meals and beers

And traveled far and wide for years,

With minimal complaining.

 

He has his hobbies; I have mine

And sometimes they may intertwine

And grandkids add a special shine,

Which doesn’t need explaining.

 

We’re lucky that, by fate or chance

Or providential circumstance,

We came together with a glance

Which proved to be sustaining. 

Therapeutic Lying

If you’re older and somehow not dying,

Yet live with dementia or worse,

Prepare to be hit with some lying

Before your last ride in a hearse.

 

This strategy’s gaining approval

As nursing homes struggle to cope

With patients whose memory removal

Deprives them of reasons to hope.

 

So little white lies are suggested

Like, “Your husband will visit real soon”

Since the truth often can’t be digested

And no time will be quite opportune.

 

Or, “Let’s visit the nursery; maybe

You’ll help rock your child to sleep,”

Where a doll substitutes for the baby

Which remains where the memories keep.

 

If deception brings comfort, I wonder

Why, to me, it just doesn’t feel right

Reaching into one’s psyche to plunder

What the mind has kept tucked out of sight.

Tired for Most of the Day

No matter how long I might sleep,

Or what are the hours I keep,

I wake up at dawn

And I stifle a yawn,

Never leaving my bed with a leap.

 

For I’m tired for most of the day,

Even if waking up I delay.

Age is taking its toll

And I’m not in control

When my eyelids do heavily weigh.

 

Still, despite feeling any concern,

There is something in this I can learn.

If my tiredness shows

I could say, I suppose,

It sure beats being stuffed in an urn!

The Accident

I heard it on the radio –

An early morning crash,

The driver’s fault and then her life

Was over in a flash.

 

It happened near my walking path

So when I headed out,

I knew I’d pass right by to see

What it was all about.

 

The F.D.R., six lanes across,

Had not a car in sight,

Except for police and clean-up crews

At work to make things right.

 

The car involved, a burned-out wreck,

Was waiting on the road

Until the inquiry was done

And then it would be towed.

 

Debris was scattered in the lanes

In both directions, plus,

The walking path had wreckage, too,

Which no one did discuss.

 

The car, a Tesla, slammed into

A barrier and flipped,

With flames caused by the battery

With which it was equipped.

 

The impact made the driver

And the passenger eject.

Though he survived, who knows the damage

That he can expect.

 

We may not ever learn just why

The driver hit those speeds,

Which well exceeded limits

That nobody ever heeds.

Melting Slush

This morning’s slush is melting

From last night’s dust of snow

Which, since it wasn’t pelting,

Left little trace, although…

 

Some little mounds keep clinging

To surfaces of grass,

Enough for snowball flinging

Before the urge might pass.

 

This weather’s awfully fickle –

It almost feels like spring,

But it’s more like a tickle,

Awaiting winter’s zing.

 

Still, I’m out by the river,

Just soaking up the sun

Which the heavens did deliver

To get all the melting done.

Tariffs

For your Super Bowl party,

When buying your chips,

Cross off guacamole

As one of your dips.

 

For most avocados

Are farmed way down south

And travel from Mexico

Straight to your mouth.

 

The same will apply to

Tequila and beer,

Since tariffs raise prices,

Or that’s what I hear.

 

So Mexican products,

Canadian, too,

Will get more expensive

For me and for you.

 

Though prices of eggs

Have been causing a shock,

Just wait ‘til folks find

It’s the same with their guac!

X-Marks-the-Spot

X-Marks-the-Spot is a tickling game

Which is traced upon someone’s bare back.

In childhood, we played it and often it caused

A goose-bump filled giggling attack.

 

My kids got the treatment when bathtime arrived

And my grandson when he was a tot,

But it’s been a while since I’ve gotten the chance

To engage in some X-Marks-the-Spot.

 

Yet I came upon Henry, eleven years old,

In the process of donning his tee

And the canvas was waiting for X-Marks-the Spot,

Just the cue for a tickle from me.

 

“I remember this, Nana!” he said as he smiled.

“Can you write down the words?” which I did,

Just delighted to think such a game’s been preserved

From my long-ago time as a kid.