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.
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.
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!
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.
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…
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.
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.
