My Brother's Book

My brother’s book deserves a look

And not just for the time it took,

But for the family tree he shook

To show the need to strive.

 

His characters are loosely based

On relatives whose lives he traced

From foreign lands ‘til they embraced

New homes when they’d arrive.

 

The story’s universal, though,

For as they settle and they grow,

We realize how much we don’t know

Of how they did survive.

 

Most families who did emigrate

Shared hardships and the hand of fate

And often, we learn much too late

What pushed or helped them thrive.

 

My brother’s book may bring acclaim

And might or might not garner fame,

But if you read From Where We Came*,

His story stays alive.

 

by Burt Rashbaum

The Morning Paper

When I’m away, I hang a bag

Or two from my front door.

The guy who brings the morning paper

Knows just what it’s for.

 

He neatly folds The New York Times

And places it inside,

Where it will stay and wait until

My home’s reoccupied.

 

Today, nine papers filled the bag

And that’s exactly right.

Tomorrow I’ll start reading them,

In order, and I might

 

Get through at least a couple

(And the crossword puzzles, too)

For, although I know the basic news,

With much, I’m overdue.

 

I love to read the paper

And in print’s the only way,

So I’m grateful that where I reside,

I’ll never miss a day.

The White Pages

Before technology, to find

A number, you would look

In a pretty big directory 

Of names bound in a book.

There were two types - the yellow pages 

Listed business phones

And the white-paged paperback contained

Your personal unknowns.

The names were alphabetical 

And had a home address,

Plus the number for the telephone

To dial (not to press!)

We have a copy from the past;

Our grandson found our page,

Though whether he could picture

Using it was hard to gauge.

Of course, most people used these books

As booster seats for tots.

Suggesting that today, though,

Would make most young parents plotz.

Hearing a Hum

It sounds more like a motor 

Than what I would call a hum,

Though a motorbird’s not fitting

As the name that it’s become.

I first heard it at the flowerpot

Before I saw it there,

Dipping in the purple blossoms

Near my green wrought iron chair.

I’m aware that red attracts them,

Like a bull on the attack,

So the visit was surprising 

Since true red my flowers lack.

Yet perhaps they can’t be choosy

As they dart and flit and dip

And a bloom that’s pink or purple

Might provide a tasty sip.

All I know is I was happy

That a hummingbird stopped by

And it doesn’t really matter

If there was a reason why.

Close Encounter

I had a close encounter 

Just this morning, on my walk,

When a bird of prey came swooping down -

A falcon or a hawk.

Either way, it flew right at me;

I saw feathers and a face

And it could have quickly grabbed my hat

And left without a trace.

Instead, it made it to a branch

And sat and looked around,

While a single startled turkey 

Strutted, anxious, on the ground.

The hawk (or falcon - still not sure)

Did not stay very long.

It made it to another tree

And, though I could be wrong,

It likely found a tasty treat

And zoomed in for the kill.

I’m glad I didn’t see that part

(And hope I never will!)

A Glimpse

We see our kids or grandkids

In our home’s familiar setting

Or at gatherings of kith and kin

Within that safety netting.

Yet when somehow there’s a glimpse 

Beyond where we’re supposed to go,

We might be surprised to find

A person we don’t really know.

Perhaps in a performance

In the arts or in a sport,

A confidence might sparkle

Which will find us caught up short. 

It is fascinating watching

As that talent is unfurled 

And we witness as our loved ones 

Make their way out in the world.

Now, not everybody gets the chance

To catch this in the works.

I am lucky, seeing one of

Watching children’s greatest perks. 

After Camp

We’d not seen our grandson in weeks,

Unless you count photo-type peeks,

But today, like a champ,

When we met him at camp,

He was grinning right up to his cheeks.

We were thrilled we could thus reconnect,

Though we hadn’t known what to expect,

But our mutual hugs

(So much better than shrugs!)

Had a perfect, delightful effect.

Now we’ll spend a few days hanging out

And I know, with no shred of a doubt,

We’ll enjoy what we do

And before we are through,

We’ll forget we’d a Henry-less drought.