Thank You, Heart

Thank you, heart, for all your beating.

Thank you, lungs, for breath.

That you, kidneys, for excreting,

Overriding death.

 

Thank you, bones, for your supporting.

Thank you, eyes, for sight.

Thank you, legs, because cavorting

Still could bring delight.

 

Thank you, teeth, for all your chewing.

Thank you, ears, for sound.

Thank you, brain, for all you’re doing,

Keeping me around.

 

We can’t know when life is ending,

But I’m grateful to

My body, with its staunch defending,

Helping me get through.

Museum Signage

In a museum, right there on the wall,

The name of the artwork’s displayed,

Along with the artist and elements used

And the date it was painted or made.

 

Yet some institutions don’t follow the script

And there are no labels or signs.

Instead, there are folders you pluck from a pile

For the info most signage defines.

 

It’s annoying to me, extra work, if you will,

Matching outlines and numbers to where

On the wall every gallery work has been hung,

For a plaque would be better off there.

 

Some museums are known for exhibits so dense

There is not enough room for a card,

But the one I just came from is spacious and spare,

So some signage would not have been hard.

In Your Pocket

My tap dance teacher told us

We should always be prepared

With an improvised routine

Based on the lessons he has shared.

 

“Just keep it in your pocket,”

Was his wise and kind advice,

“So if asked at an audition,

There’d be no need to think twice.”

 

Now, this class has mostly seniors,

Not a pro within the group,

And I’m certain not a one of us

Will try out for a troupe.

 

Yet, I think there is some wisdom

In that counsel to apply

To so many parts of life,

Which can be useful by and by.

 

For some knowledge “in your pocket,”

Which is always there to use,

Whether tap dance steps or trivia

May help stress to defuse.

 

Still, before it’s “in your pocket,”

You will have to know it cold

And the confidence that brings you

Will be worth its weight in gold.

Golden

Instead of pumpkin pie, that year,

We had a wedding cake,

One reason why our T-Day marriage

Was a big mistake.

 

The families gathered, most of them,

With travel at its peak.

We should have planned it, really,

For most any other week.

 

Aside from all the agita

A holiday can cause,

Some tension with some relatives

Was reason to give pause.

 

Yet looking back at pictures,

There is joy in all the smiles

Brought together for our wedding day

From distances of miles.

 

Since that was fifty years ago,

Some who were there have passed.

Perhaps they’d be surprised to learn

Those vows we took did last.

 

Though I am not, I must admit

That even had I known,

I couldn’t have imagined how

These fifty years have flown.

On the Road

Everybody’s on the road 

In stressed-out pre-Thanksgiving mode 

To reach some far-away abode

Before the giant feast.

Each car is packed with gifts and food

And maybe kids whose attitude

Will put the grown-ups in a mood

That children like the least.

The traffic crawls, the brake lights shine;

The drivers gripe, the toddlers whine,

Though no one yet has crossed the line

That sunders man and beast.

The ones at home who must prepare,

Though hard at work, don’t really care

About the folks who tear their hair

Until their travel’s ceased.

Alive

Each year I get a letter

To make sure that I’m not dead.

There must be other ways

To check that info out, instead.

 

It’s from the T.R.S.*, which holds

Retirement accounts,

Keeping track of teachers’ monies

In their varying amounts.

 

I guess that sometimes people die

And relatives or friends

Pretend that person’s still alive

To claim those dividends.

 

So I have to take a picture

Of my government I.D.,

Plus a photo of a newspaper

That’s being held by me.

 

The headline must be visible

To ascertain the date

And I have to sign a form that says

I’m living and not late.

 

With A.I. and technology,

It seems that such a shot

Must be easy for someone to fake,

But maybe it is not.

 

At any rate, I sent the forms

And hope when they arrive,

Whoever checks them out will see

That I am still alive.

 

*Teachers’ Retirement System

The Younger Me

The younger me would try to be

A person you might like to see.

When plans were made, I would agree

To travel with the flow.

I’d care about what people thought

And follow rules I had been taught

And make sure everything I bought

Was worth that kind of dough.

I’d worry about how I looked

And fuss with everything I cooked

And obligations got me hooked

When I could not say no.

That younger self does not exist

And though some remnants do persist, 

To meet me now, you will have missed 

That me from long ago.

Here’s To

Here’s to the doormen,

The porters, the waiters,

The plumbers, the cabbies,

The exterminators…

Here’s to the teachers,

The nannies, the nurses,

Performers and artists

And writers of verses…

Here’s to the athletes,

The mailmen, reporters,

The chefs and the police force

And climate supporters…

Here’s to the builders

And tour guides and cleaners

And research assistants 

And medical screeners…

Here’s to repairmen

And bakers and drivers 

And farmers and shepherds

And all of the strivers 

Who put in the effort,

Most times, to the letter,

To help make our lives 

(And their own) so much better.

A Photo Book

For every trip we go on,

A photo book is made.

It’s just a way to guarantee

That memories won’t fade.

 

Unlike the days of making prints,

I do it all online,

With pictures taken from the phone

To form my own design.

 

It takes some time and often

There are glitches, which I hate

And since I’m not the patient type,

They do exasperate.

 

And yet it somehow all gets done,

With hours going by.

I hit the “order” button,

Though I sometimes wonder why.

 

For no one ever takes a peek

Or even seems to care,

Except for me and I’ll admit,

My peeks are pretty rare.

 

Still, it’s a custom I won’t break

Since it is worth the cost

To capture these vacations

‘Til the day they all get tossed.

Piles of Leaves

In the suburbs, piles of leaves

Sit waiting on the street,

The blowers having gathered them

In mounds, all nice and neat.

A gust of wind may carry some,

Or possibly a child

Who couldn’t quite resist the urge

To tap his inner wild. 

But once a week, a truck comes by

And with its giant hose,

It sucks that foliage from the road 

To someplace no one knows.

When I was young, the leaves were raked

And then were set aflame,

That sweet aroma spelling “fall”

In memory’s acclaim.

They vanished in a dust of ash 

As heavenward they’d rise 

Along with childhood’s fading hold

We’d once romanticize.

A Flannel Shirt

When the air has a chill,

There are sweatshirts and fleece,

Shawls and sweaters and scarves

To help shivers decrease.

 

But we shouldn’t forget,

As I’m here to inform,

That a flannel shirt’s best

To keep cozy and warm.

 

With an endless assortment

Of patterns and plaids,

These are tried-and-true staples,

Not fly-by-night fads.

 

Now with two new additions

To flannels I own,

I will conquer the shivers

To which I am prone.

Thrift Store Donations

The thrift store takes donations

And we’ve given clothes before,

So while going through my closet,

I decided to give more.

 

Some fancy dresses I won’t wear

Might work for someone new.

I dropped them off, but as I left,

The mirror let me view

 

A man who held a jacket,

Turning it this way and that

And of course I recognized it

From its former habitat.

 

I was glad to tell my husband

His old coat might have a home

And it served a double purpose,

Inspiration for a poem.

Tapping

We stood in a circle

And followed along

With the teacher’s instructions.

(I got a few wrong.)

 

As we tapped and we shuffled,

The mirror revealed

Our successes and failures,

With nothing concealed.

 

When the music was added,

We got to pretend

We were up on a stage,

But you’d have to suspend

 

Disbelief for a few of us,

‘Specially me,

For my skills aren’t expert

To any degree.

 

Yet the melody moved us

And all of us found

Such delight in the tapping

And joy in the sound.

A Petal Falls

Before they droop, a petal falls,

Soon followed by some more

And that’s the signal that it’s time

To head back to the store.

 

My husband buys the flowers

So the vase is always filled

With whatever seems to catch his eye;

At choosing, he’s quite skilled.

 

We don’t need an occasion

Or a fancy schmancy bunch,

For he picks them just as much for him

As me; that’s just a hunch.

 

The local markets always stock

Bouquets at little cost,

So when the petals start to drop,

The old bunch will be tossed.

Background Music

It’s never silent in our home;

The music’s always on,

Most often from the radio,

Tuned in ‘til dusk, from dawn.

 

The desktop also pitches in

For jazz or swing or blues

And there’s another radio

That’s only set to news.

 

The street noise filters in as well,

But I can tune it out,

Unless it’s something extra loud,

Which happens, there’s no doubt.

 

Yet mostly I enjoy the sounds

Musicians strum or blow

Or pluck or tap or sing, through which

Good spirits seem to flow.

World Cruise

I got a brochure in the mail

To book a world cruise, setting sail

For a journey at sea,

Just my husband and me,

Where good times would most surely prevail.

 

Departure is not for two years

And the price would put us in arrears

If the suite that we choose

Is the Owner’s to use,

Though I’m hoping he never appears.

 

The ship spends five months’ worth of days

With the ocean awaiting our gaze

And I’m sure so much food

Cooked to fit every mood

Would increase what each passenger weighs.

 

Since our usual trips last a week

And our bodies aren’t quite at their peak,

I think maybe we’ll pass,

Letting someone first class

Find whatever adventures they seek.

A Little Leeway

Sometimes plans have many parts;

Not all will you embrace.

Yet if you’re lucky, with some smarts,

They might fall into place.

A little leeway might just pave

The way to make things work

And compromise could help to stave

Resentments which might lurk.

Too often people won’t engage

In planning’s give and take,

The lack of which can set the stage

For someone’s heart to break.

Yet thinking every aspect through

Of all suggestions made

Can shine a light of hope in lieu

Of hurts that might pervade.

Flipping a Coin

When flipping a coin,

Someone calls “heads” or “tails”

And whichever is chosen,

A winner prevails.

 

A president’s head

Is what’s actually shown.

On a penny, it’s Lincoln;

The quarter is known

 

As George Washington’s place

And the nickel is where

Thomas Jefferson’s face

Is imprinted right there.

 

F.D.R. has the dime

And, since back in the day,

The half-dollar’s profile

Is of J.F.K.

 

The back of each coin,

As the “tail” will reveal,

Has a shield or an eagle

Or President’s seal.

 

There’s also a torch

And an olive branch, too.

Monticello is pictured;

Some stars are on view.

 

Yet the Treasury wants

A new coin to be made

Worth a dollar, with You-Know-Who

Proudly displayed.

 

On both sides of the coin, though,

His face will appear.

Shouldn’t one be his head

And the other his rear?

 

That would sure cause a scene

For the country to hail.

After all, coins still need

Both the head and the tail.                          

A Rosy Lens

Things that used to mean a lot

Don’t mean as much today,

Yet missing them can still feel sad,

No matter what they say.

 

In memory, there’s laughter

And there’s comfort, which surrounds

Friends and family partaking

In the foodstuff that abounds.

 

In reality, that picture’s

Filtered through a rosy lens,

But the past still seems inviting

When comparing now and thens.

 

As the world pulls taut around me,

I seek solace in the thought

That most often, all the yearning

Won’t reveal that which was sought.

Night Patrol

My brother wrote a story

Based on childhood, when we went

To the Catskills for the summer;

Those were joyous times we spent.

 

In his telling, though, he mentioned

“Night patrol,” which caught me short.

I’d forgotten all about it,

Something memory did thwart.

 

On the weekends, when the fathers

(Who remained at home for work)

Traveled up to see their families,

What awaited was a perk.

 

For at night, in the casino,

(Like a clubhouse party space)

There was music, booze and dancing;

Lots of fun was taking place.

 

All the children, unattended,

Stayed inside the bungalows

While some older teens on “night patrol”

Strode up and down the rows.

 

Everything was walking distance,

So if something was amiss,

Like a crying baby or a toddler

Needing mommy’s kiss

 

Night patrol came to the rescue,

Someone fetching dad or mom,

While another night patroller

Stayed and kept the kiddies calm.

 

Those were different times, for sure;

Doors were unlocked and not a soul

Ever worried ‘bout a problem,

Knowing there was night patrol.

Before an Auction

Before an auction, you can view

The artwork that’s for sale.

It’s open to the public ‘til

The wealthy will prevail.

 

I stroll the galleries and stop,

My admiration strong,

And think about the people

To whom this will soon belong.

 

The current owners also have

A place within my head.

They’ll now have megabucks where once

These paintings hung instead.

 

Yet somehow none of this seems fair,

For art in private hands

Means that most of us will never see

What affluence commands…

 

Except before an auction

When, unlike the rich, the rest

Of the city comes to treasure

What they see, not to invest.

The Museum Store

There isn’t one thing that I need

But so much I could buy,

Though contemplating purchases,

It pays to question why.

 

I’m at the age when I will try

To spend a little less,

For I have lots of jewelry

And tchotchkes, I confess.

 

Yet here’s my rule of thumb when I

Find something that appeals –

I picture leaving it behind

To see the way that feels.

 

If never seeing it again

Begins to make me sad,

I know that once it’s mine, I’ll be

Relieved and more than glad.

 

An object that brings joy

And is a splurge I can afford

Makes me give in to temptation

With each smile as my reward.

Blame the Democrats!

(to the tune of "With a Little Bit O'Luck" from "My Fair Lady)

Oh, step inside and see the Lincoln bathroom.

This marble is a vision to behold.

The government might now be in a shutdown, but

Blame the Democrats, oh yes! Blame the Democrats, oh yes!

Did I mention faucets made of gold?

 

Blame the Democrats (like me)! The Republicans agree

That my White House plans are big and bold.

 

Oh, see the East Wing in a pile of rubble.

A massive ballroom will rise up instead,

Those needing SNAP funds may be having trouble, but

Blame the Democrats, like me, for the Democrats, you see

Are the reason children can’t get fed.

 

Blame the Democrats (like me)! The Republicans agree

Only feed the families voting red!

 

Though I was King of Mar-a-Largo,

The White House needed me to spruce things up.

 

Mt. Rushmore’s waiting for my face’s carving,

Or else my visage should be on a coin.

Planes are delayed and families are starving, but

Blame the Democrats, oh yes! They’re the reason for this mess.

Young Republicans need you to join!

 

Blame the Democrats! It seems even most of the Supremes

Take my side and bow right down to kiss my feet.

Oh, those Democrats, so blue, wonder what they’re gonna do

If three terms will make my life complete?

Too Many People

So many people cannot find

A job, a home, a mate.

They’re stuck for ages in a bind

In hopes that if they wait

Their luck will change in some respect

And things will turn around.

Employment they would not reject 

Will finally be found.

A new apartment will appear,

One that they can afford

And maybe fate will somehow steer

A mate to be adored.

Perhaps that’s asking way too much,

But everyone can dream

And some stay upbeat, thinking such

A life they can redeem.

For those of us who’ve had some luck

And had those dreams come true,

We might remember being stuck,

Without the slightest clue.

Everybody Funny

In a song I like,

Which I rarely hear,

Called “One Bourbon,”

And “One Scotch, One Beer,”

There’s a line I love

And the way it goes 

“Everybody funny,”

I suppose,

Is the perfect way

To describe us all,

For there’s nobody

That I recall

Without traits and quirks,

Both the good and bad,

That can make you smile

Or can drive you mad.

Human ways to be

One can thus define 

As unique and, yes,

That’s including mine.

We get through our lives 

In our “funny” ways

As George Thorogood*

Catches in that phrase.

*recorded in 1977 by 

George Thorogood & the Destroyers

Another Part of the City

In another part of the city,

Where I never ever go,

The streets were far from pretty

And much worse that you might know.

 

The poverty was glaring,

The folks down at their heels

And, although I wasn’t staring,

They were burdened by ordeals.

 

Some were sprawled out in the gutters;

Others shuffled slowly by.

Though I couldn’t hear their mutters,

I could see the reasons why.

 

From my neighborhood, two miles

Is the distance, I would say,

Which holds separate all their trials

And keeps fear of that at bay.

Election Day Thoughts

Today is the election

But there’s very little doubt

Who will soon be New York’s mayor,

For the word has gotten out.

 

Since I live near Gracie Mansion,

Every time there is a change,

I expect to see a difference,

Something that I might find strange.

 

Yet that very rarely happens,

Though one mayor put a fence

Which prevented us from peeking

In the yard during events.

 

Still, there hasn’t been a mayor

Quite as young, who will reside

In the neighborhood, along with

His new even-younger bride.

 

Even if he throws loud parties,

Leaving folks less than delighted,

There are many reasons why I know

I’d never be invited.

Our Jacqueline Days

On Halloween, someone

Wore Jackie’s pink suit,

All spattered with blood –

She thought it a hoot.

 

The Rose Garden’s gone

Like the East Wing’s demise,

Though none of these acts

Should be any surprise.

 

We live in a time

Where behavior’s debased

And where gilt covers up

All the class it’s replaced.

 

With a leader unhinged

And the government cowed,

Will we ever regain

What once made us so proud?

 

Our Jacqueline days

Have been dragged through the mud

When now people can laugh

About feces* and blood.

 

*Truth Social showed an AI-generated

video of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named

in a fighter jet dropping feces on “No Kings”

protesters.