For the Record

If you’re old enough, you might remember

Records that we played

On Hi-Fis or Victrolas;

If you’re not, I am afraid

 

You won’t quite understand

Exactly what this poem’s about,

Which is candy shaped like records,

Treats I cannot do without.

 

Each is made of strips of licorice -

The real stuff, strong and black,

Which is curled into a circle,

Like those records from way back.

 

I bought them for a penny in

A candy store near school

And the middle held a sugar dot,

Bright reddish, as a rule.

 

My husband searched for them online

And buys me three pound bags.

I have one every night I’m home

Or else my spirit sags.

 

They have no sugar dots, but still,

Their taste is just as sweet

As the ones I brought so long ago

On a local Brooklyn street.

Shorter Days

I like when days are shorter,

Though I know most won’t agree,

But getting out before the sunrise

Seems just right to me.

 

On winter days I read in bed

Before I venture out.

Yet now, with just one chapter,

There’s a bright blue sky, no doubt.

 

I miss the oranges and pinks

That make the sky aglow.

It’s like having front row seats

For Nature’s early morning show.

 

The daylight hours stretch, as well,

So when it’s sunny-bright

At the dinner hour and beyond,

It doesn’t feel like night.

 

I much prefer the coziness

Of being tucked inside

When the afternoon is slowly

Starting on its evening slide.

 

Alas, my preferences take hold

For one-half of the year

And to the rules, I have no choice

But simply to adhere.

Wifely Wrath

A person in the public eye,

When subject of a joke,

Has every right to mope or cry

About the one who spoke.

 

Yet we’re still a democracy,

Though maybe not much longer,

And things we thought we’d never see

Are here and getting stronger.

 

The freedom that we have to speak

And criticize or sneer at

Applies to even those so weak

Their enemies they JEER AT!

 

The ALL-CAPS ranting’s not enough –

The claws must dig in deeper

To prove to all that he’s so tough

Revenge will cut much steeper.

 

And so the toadies and the Court

Will seek some retribution

As ABC might cut things short

In hopes of absolution.

 

It’s bad enough when words are hurled

From One-I Will-Not-Mention

But now, with wifely wrath unfurled,

There’s double the attention.

Nice to be Outdoors

Some days are good for doing chores

But also nice to be outdoors

So I’ve combined some stops in stores

With soaking up some sun.

 

For days like this, I can’t abide

Too many hours stuck inside.

Instead, with instinct as my guide,

I’m getting so much done.

 

I bought some flowers in a pot

And posted letters in their slot,

Plus bought a shirt I like a lot,

All on my chore-type run.

 

And now, with laundry washed and dried

And Swiffered floors, I’m back outside,

For sunny afternoons provide

The chance, which I’ve begun

 

To watch the river as I write,

The water such a calming sight,

The city bringing me delight,

Like magic it has spun.

Dressing Up

I’ve heard that in the early years

Of traveling by air,

The passengers would get dressed up

To get from here to there.

 

That was before my time and yet,

The dress-up rule applied

At many places where that custom’s

Simply up and died.

 

Like going to a Broadway show

Or ceremony for

A graduation where it will

Be noticed what you wore.

 

Religious celebrations, too,

In temple, mosque or church

Might reveal a dress-down pattern

Among many if you search.

 

Still, for certain nice occasions,

I like dressing up so I

Am reminded of decorum,

Which was part of days gone by.

Decapitations

Park Avenue’s had tulips

On the median each year

Since 1980 and their blooms

Announce that spring is here.

 

They brighten up the neighborhood

For all who pass them by,

But a vandal chopped their heads off

And it makes me wonder why.

 

Resentment towards the rich?

Yet volunteers do all the work,

So all who drive or walk there

Can enjoy this city perk.

 

The bulbs, too, are donations

Meant to beautify the street.

Perhaps the lone decapitator

Couldn’t quite defeat

 

The urge to make a statement

With this nasty act of rage.

A doorman saw it happen

And the police he did engage.

 

Alas, the vandal got away

But here’s an upbeat fact:

The blooms are gone but might return;

The bulbs are still intact.

Modeling Clay

Kids today, I have to say,

Are latched onto their screens

And spend more time than I on rhyme,

No matter what their means.

My grandkid’s friend, at school day’s end,

Came over for a while.

They ate and talked but mostly gawked

At sites that did beguile.

The sunny day lured them to play

Out in the grassy yard

‘Til boredom hit, so in a bit,

They played the hungry card.

A little snack, but then a lack

Of things to do set in.

Some board games? No! With spirits low,

The kvetching could begin.

Until my son got the job done,

Producing what he knew

Could save the day, some brand-new clay - 

Wow, something cool to do!

Ideas took hold, they squished and rolled,

Creating works of art,

With smiles of pride that couldn’t hide

What screens cannot impart.