On the Last Day

On the last day of the year, do you

Look to what lies ahead

Or do you think back to the months

You’ve made it through instead?

 

It’s natural to want to plan

For all the coming days,

But sometimes past events are stuck

Within your mind’s displays.

 

This eve demands a reckoning,

A time of taking stock,

When what we’ve done or haven’t

Measures up against the clock.

 

And as it ticks to midnight,

We should try our very best

To just focus on the positive

And give all else a rest.

 

We can’t start 2026

With an unblemished slate,

But hopefully we’ll find, this year,

Enough to celebrate.

Reconciliation

My father was an athlete

And a soldier at eighteen.

He never told us anything

About the things he’d seen.

 

He worked at selling shoes,

Mostly for children, in a store,

Six days a week, a different life

From fighting in a war.

 

I tried to reconcile those halves,

Both aspects of my dad,

But snapshots with his army pals

Were all the proof I had

 

Of that early version of the man

Who never had the time

To retire and relax because

He died while in his prime.

 

He never knew his grandkids,

Had no condo in the sun,

Yet he was loved and that’s what counts

When all is said and done.

 

So Happy Birthday, Daddy!

Your four children have your smile

And I guess that’s quite enough for me

To need to reconcile.

The Heart

My heart has thumped since I was born,

When I’ve been giddy or forlorn

And all this time, I could have sworn

Its warranty would last.

 

It does the job it’s meant to do

And, thick or thin, it’s seen me through,

But really, I don’t have a clue

When stones will all be cast.

 

Like batteries, which start to slow,

The heart may struggle, but I know

My blood keeps managing to flow,

Yet time is flying fast.

 

The other organs do not take

The spotlight; somehow more’s at stake

With hearts, for only they can break,

Their standing unsurpassed.

And on Keyboard...

My favorite story in the news,

Which likely garnered many views,

Involved a Swedish man and creature

In a human-interest feature.

 

Mattias Krantz, a young musician,

Used his chops and intuition

To teach an octopus to play

A piano in a clever way.

 

He purchased Takoyaki from

A market, thinking he’d become

The only keyboardist to use

Some tentacles to play the blues.

 

With bribes of crab to strike the keys,

This octopus learned how to please

And hit some notes just like a star

As Krantz strummed nearby, on guitar.

 

I read the tale of this duet,

A human and his ocean pet,

But you should go the extra mile –

The video will make you smile.

In So Many Ways

People are different in so many ways

That naming them never would cease to amaze

And though you could try ‘til the end of your days,

You’d never be able to do it.

 

From what they might wear to what they believe,

Their life style choices and what they achieve,

The places they live and ideas they conceive,

An outsider couldn’t intuit.

 

Religions (or lack of), political choices,

Silent and inward or raising their voices,

How and for what someone sulks or rejoices,

Each get judged by the way people view it.

 

That, I guess, is the rub, for when we don’t agree

With the actions of others to any degree,

There’ll be sadness or anger, for I guarantee

Most just don’t even try to subdue it.

Waiting for Snow

There’s something appealing

To waiting for snow,

Though Nature’s concealing

Just how it will go.

 

The weather predictions

State how much will fall,

But sometimes convictions

Won’t pan out at all.

 

The markets are crowded

With folks filling carts

As skies grow more clouded

Before it all starts.

 

As children may gather

Their boots and their sleds,

The grown-ups would rather

Stay snug in their beds.

 

Yet now we’re just waiting

To see that first flake,

For anticipating

Might be a mistake.

Christmas Fishes

On Christmas, many people eat

The feast of seven fishes,

With salted cod and smelts and eel

Among the many dishes.

 

There also might be shrimp and calamari,

Clams and mussels,

Prepared by Mom or Nonna

Who, for hours, sweats and bustles.

 

But as a Jew, I might partake

Of fishes of my own,

The kind that every New York

Bagel lover’s ever known –

 

There’s sturgeon, whitefish, sable,

Plus baked salmon and some Nova

And belly lox, depending on

The people coming ovah.

 

To make it seven, you could add

Some herring made with wine

Or cream sauce, or some mackerel;

They all would work out fine.

 

No matter what your fishes are,

To those who celebrate,

Have a very Merry Christmas day

And Gey Gezunteheyt!* (pronounced Gay Guzzinta Hayt)

 

*Go in good health (in Yiddish)

Hot Chocolate

When I was a child, my cousin and I

Joined my aunt to see concerts designed

To expose kids to music and all of its joys,

But only the classical kind.

 

At a nearby café, where we stopped for a treat,

Hot chocolate was made and prepared,

From a chocolate bar heated up in a pan

With some milk, which we happily shared.

 

It’s remained in my memory bank all these years

And on some rare occasions, I crave

Such a cup, though I know it won’t equal

That one that my mind chose to save.

 

Still today I decided to give it a shot

And I stopped at a place where it’s sold,

But my order was met with a shrug and, of course,

Here’s the message that I was then told:

 

“We’re out of hot chocolate. There’s none to be had.”

I guess fate stepped in to prevent

Me from drinking a cup that could never compare,

In my mind, to the slightest extent.

My Driver's License

Before it expires in April,

I thought I would get it renewed.

I made an appointment and filled out the form

Which the motor club people reviewed.

 

The eye test, one line, was real easy;

I smiled for the photo, then paid.

It will come in the mail’s what they told me,

But I saw the receipt, which displayed

 

When the new license next will expire –

The year plainly said ’34,

Which I laughed at, for those with my papers

Were certainly not keeping score!

Movies at Home

Watched a first-run movie

From the comfort of my couch,

An experience to which

So many folks could likely vouch.

 

You can’t beat the convenience

And the snacks my kitchen holds,

Plus the fact that I can pause things,

Even as the plot unfolds.

 

There’s no outerwear to deal with

And no bus or cab or train

And it doesn’t matter if, outside,

There’s cold or snow or rain.

 

Yet I kind of miss the theaters

Crammed with fellow movie buffs,

Though, at times, your seatmates seemed like

Slobs or boors or lowlife scruffs.

 

Yes, I know I can return to

Those few theaters that exist,

But when Netflix has a current film,

It’s too hard to resist.

Changing Clothes

Girls could not wear pants to school

When I was just a kid

And on our feet were shoes, not sneakers;

That’s just what we did.

 

We got dressed up on holidays

Or specialized events

Like Broadway shows or graduations;

There were no dissents.

 

Grown-ups also went to work

In dresses, suits and ties.

Decorum was the rule of thumb then,

Meant to civilize.

 

We’ve come a long way from those years.

Now there are no set rules

And most would claim they like this freedom;

Dress codes are for fools.

 

Yet there are times I look around

At people at their jobs

And what I see is the result;

So many look like slobs.

 

I wouldn’t want restrictions like

The ones we used to know,

But it bothers me that sloppiness

Is now the status quo.

The Stage is Set

The stage is set, my phone is off;

The play has yet to start.

The audience is filing in,

Preparing to depart

 

From reality for just a while,

An hour and a half

And hopefully, they’ll be rewarded

With a smile or laugh

 

Or possibly with sadness

Or nostalgia or with rage.

No matter which – it’s all contained

In lines upon the stage.

 

Forgotten are the problems

That they’ve briefly left behind,

Yet when the show is over,

Back at home that’s what they’ll find.

 

Yet in this brief reprieve they get to

Focus on the show

And the struggles of the actors,

Far from those that they might know.

In One Short Day

In one short day, the weather changed

From dark to bright and rearranged

Our attitudes and clothes we wear

To fit the hours, foul or fair.

 

It started out with quite a storm

But temps unusually warm,

As rain ran riot ‘cross the road

And lawns turned into puddle mode.

 

The winds whipped wildly; from each tree

The squirrels scampered crazily.

Umbrellas, often such a perk,

On days like this, don’t really work.

 

As hours passed by, with me inside,

The rain decided to subside

And then the wind slowed down, as well,

For good, as far as I could tell.

 

The sun peeked out, for just a while.

I got my walk in, with a smile,

But heading back, dark clouds appeared,

This fickle weather really weird.

 

And now tonight, some thunder struck

And raindrops we will have to duck.

Tomorrow, I can just surmise,

Will bring another new surprise.

The Cord

The irony of aging is

You’ve worked your whole life toward

Retirement or working less

And maybe you have scored

 

A little nest egg, waiting,

Like a “You’ve done well” reward,

So there might be some treasures

That right now you can afford.

 

Yet some, like me, have also reached

The point where I am bored

By wandering through stores, which I,

At one time, just adored.

 

The kicker is that I could use

Some savings I have stored

To treat myself, but nothing tempts;

I guess I’ve cut the cord.

Watching Renoir

At the Morgan,* Renoir’s drawings

And some paintings are displayed,

Including varied studies

Leading up to works he made.

 

There were several lovely landscapes,

Which I’ve never seen before.

I preferred them to his portraits

And I wish they’d offered more.

 

Yet to me, what was amazing

Was a film which had no sound,

Which portrayed an older Renoir

Who, by then, though still renowned,

 

Had severe arthritis in his hands,

His fingers gnarled and bent,

But with brushes strapped onto his wrists,

He’d paint to some extent.

 

In the movie, which appeared home-made,

An easel waited there

As he dabbed it with his claw-hand,

Though this work he didn’t share.

 

Still, he glanced up at the camera,

Looking impish and quite pleased,

Maybe showing off his skills despite

The way his bones had seized.

 

In 1919, Renoir died

And yet we get to see

Such a master at his painting,

Which was quite a thrill to me.

 

*The Morgan Library and Museum, New York City

Time for Outrage

Beyond the shock of hearing

Of Rob Reiner’s awful death

Were the comments by a “leader”

Who spews hatred with each breath.

 

No matter what your feelings

(And of Reiner, I’m a fan),

There’s a level of respect that should

Be granted to a man

 

And his wife who suffered as they died,

At home, where they were stabbed,

Yet even this presented as

Attention to be grabbed.

 

There aren’t words to write about

This national disgrace

And even if some MAGA folk

Speak out to save some face…

 

The outrage should be ‘cross the board –

Ferocious, fierce and loud,

For how in this America

Can anyone feel proud?

Frozen Slush

In younger days, if in a rush,

I’d race right over frozen slush

Without a thought of danger there

Of which I should be made aware.

 

Yet nowadays, I view the street

When there’s been snow or hail or sleet

As someplace where such dangers hide,

I might be better off inside.

 

I’ll venture out, but take each step

So gingerly, without the pep

That usually propels my gait

Each day when I perambulate.

 

Around me, all the younger crowd

Still walk like doubt is not allowed,

Especially since city folk

Most always seem to go for broke.

 

At least I know that once the ice

Has melted, I will not think twice

Of moving with my normal strut,

No fear of falling on my butt.

Lighting the Candles

Tonight we light the candles

When the holiday begins,

As the latkes fry in oil

And the dreidel quickly spins.

 

We’ll try to block out hatred,

Often aimed to harm or scare

As the world keeps moving onward,

In most cases, unaware.

 

It’s impossible to fathom

So much loathing and for what?

Yet we’ll watch the candles glowing

And be glad for what we’ve got.

Life in Short

We’re born; we learn.

We grow; we thrive.

We mourn; we yearn

And so, survive.

 

We strive; we nest.

We laugh; we cry.

Alive, we’re stressed,

Then lo! We die.

Cherries

While eating some cherries,

I have to admit

That the fruit is delicious,

But lickety-split

 

The bowl will be empty

Except for the pits

And the stems that released them

For our benefits.

 

The cherries are bursting

With beauty and taste,

Though the pits and the stems

Will get tossed out as waste.

 

When life is described as

This fruit in a bowl,

It’s obvious that

All the cherries are whole

 

And likewise, when everything

Seems on the fritz,

It’s apt to believe that

Your life is the pits.

Domingo

My husband likes conversing

With most anyone he meets,

Including taxi drivers or

The ones in Uber fleets.

 

Domingo was our Uber guy

And on the ride, we shared

Some talk of life and grandkids,

But I doubt he was prepared

 

When a question was presented

Asking him to think and rate,

On a scale of 1 – 10,

Just how happy was his state.

 

At first he didn’t get it

Then he smiled and said most days

His number would be 8 and next,

He listed all the ways.

 

He and his family have their health,

He has a home and work

And seeing others suffer,

He knows dangers that might lurk.

 

So all in all, his life’s okay

And he feels satisfied,

A pleasant conversation

For our Wednesday Uber ride.

Aging Well

My aunt plays mah jongg twice a week

And, far as I can tell,

She likes the game at the Senior Center

Known as “Aging Well.”

 

While visiting, I joined her there

And dusted off my skills,

Observing all the functions that

The Center thus fulfills –

 

Camaraderie, the sense of pride

That competition brings

And time away from home in which

To stretch reluctant wings.

 

At 97 years of age,

My aunt still likes to play

And “Aging Well” allows her

To keep doing things her way.

Game Shows

When visiting my older aunt,

We sit and watch TV.

When she’s alone she does this,

But it’s not the same for me.

So I was not familiar with

Shows like “Let’s Make a Deal”

Or “Wheel of Fortune,” which to many 

Really do appeal.

It seems that the contestants must

Be smiley, showy, loud

And enthusiastic to a point

Of which I’d not be proud.

The audience is into it -

They clap and whoop and cheer,

As grinning hosts might wonder

How they made this their career.

Yet all these shows are popular,

Which doesn’t shock me much,

But makes me see how with this country

I am out of touch.

Esther’s Apartment

Esther’s apartment is almost the same

As it was when she lived in its space.

Her son and her daughter-in-law (my dear friend)

Live there now and her vibe they embrace.

All her furniture’s there and her dishes and lamps

And the paintings of many a child

(Even Esther), plus one of a rabbi and all

By her father, professionally styled.

For the last twenty years of her life, Esther made

The apartment a welcoming home,

Where her family, including great-grandchildren, came,

Never thinking they’d be in a poem.

But my favorite thing was the album, quite big,

Of her wedding, a gala affair,

All the images captured in black and white shots 

With a true 1950-type flair.

Esther’s spirit lives on, which would not be the case

If my friend and her husband weren’t there,

But they’ve honored her past as their future is made

Which, to me, seems so special and rare.

The Restaurant

The restaurant was wonderful;

The food was well prepared. 

The atmosphere was cozy

And I liked the booth we shared.

The waiter, super-friendly,

Was attentive and the beer

Was a local IPA, which made

Me grin from ear to ear.

Yet glancing at the other diners,

What I noticed first

Was the fact that everyone was old

And what was interspersed 

At their tables were their walkers 

Or their wheelchairs or their canes.

Still, they ate and drank and laughed and maybe 

I can’t quite explain,

But it made me understand how life

In Florida is sold -

Not to get away from winter,

But to join your fellow old.

Group 6

The flight is full, so there’s no room

For everybody’s bags.

We need 3 dozen volunteers -

Come up; we’ve got the tags.

The first-class passengers are set,

As well as Comfort Plus,

But those in Groups 6,7,8 - 

You’re screwed - and that means us!

We didn’t buy the cheapest seats,

Yet still, we’re in a fix

Because our boarding pass revealed

That we are in Group 6.

We now need 20 people

To check baggage and what’s more,

By doing so, we’ll move you up

And you will join Group 4!

We waited with our bags until

A few of us remained

And yes, we stowed our bags up top, 

Despite what they’d maintained.

And by the way, 2 empty seats 

Are there across the aisle,

A challenge to the agents

Who might still be in denial.

Waxed Amaryllis

An acquaintance left my son a gift

In a bag outside his door,

An amaryllis plant in wax

I’ve never seen before.

Instructions say to let it sit 

In a well-lit room, but not

In sun that is direct; perhaps

It might get much too hot.

It needs no water, for the bulbs

Have nutrients within,

Plus all the moisture to ensure

That growth will soon begin.

In four to five weeks, stems will form,

Then one month later, buds,

Which will produce some lovely blooms

(Unless you’re stuck with duds).

A perfect gift for those of us 

Whose thumbs are far from green.

With zero effort, you can add

Some beauty to your scene.

Some Baking

Today I did some baking,

Though the holiday’s not yet,

But there is no mistaking

Rules that I will not forget.

 

Ingredients are measured

And utensils are at hand.

For this recipe I’ve treasured,

Everything must go as planned.

 

As I dust the dough with flour

And my rolling pin’s in play,

I lose track of time; each hour

Seems to slowly slip away.

 

These same cookie cutters used to

Be my grandma’s; now they’re mine

And I think she’d be amused to

See her recipe still shine.

 

I am only halfway finished

But I’m glad to take a break.

Though my skills have not diminished,

There’s a lot more left to bake.