Ingrained

Certain habits are ingrained

From when you were a kid,

So though you’re grown, they’ve been retained

For things you always did.

 

Like if you’re sloppy or you’re neat,

Your age won’t likely change it

And if your diet leans towards sweet,

The years won’t rearrange it.

 

If you’re quiet, maybe shy,

It’s rare that you’ll outgrow it

And once a bully, you might try

To change, but you will blow it.

 

We learn when we are very young

From others we are seeing

And those we closely live among,

The varied ways of being.

 

And slowly we adapt and find

What self we’ll be presenting,

How others see what in our mind,

Which we can’t help preventing.

Unbleeped

The New York Times won’t print the word;

It’s bleeped on every station.

Yet somehow, now, the “leader”

Of this once-respected nation

 

Can read and post a message

There for everyone to catch,

With a F**K YOU and a B***ARD

Written out in ALL CAPS, natch.

 

What a shining fine example

For our kids and grands to follow!

Correcting their obscenities

Will come across as hollow.

 

Yet this is what we’re stuck with,

Every awful trait unfurled.

It’s no wonder we are mocked

In every corner of the world.

On Easter

I let them all pass over me –

The cheery Happy Easters!

Assuming I will be among

Today’s hot cross bun feasters.

 

But no, I won’t be eating lamb

Or ham with all its glazing,

Although I’m sure the Easter pies

My friend makes are amazing.

 

For I’m observing Pesach,*

So what I will eat instead

Will be matzoh or its relatives,

All with unleavened bread.

 

Of course, there’s meat and chicken,

Lots of veggies, eggs and fruit

And special cakes and cookies,

Made with matzoh meal, to boot.

 

I used to set those people straight

Whose greetings had no clue

That Easter’s not for everyone,

But I no longer do.

 

When people offer me a wish

For a Happy Easter day,

I smile and say, “The same to you”

And send them on their way.

 

*Passover

A Driving Trip

A driving trip to someplace new,

Complete with water views,

Made my birthday very special,

Just the weekend I would choose.

Included was a mansion tour,

A river walk and meal

At a lovely local place, which had

A cozy, warm appeal.

Of course, throughout the day were lots

Of texts and calls for me,

Plus an ice cream stop to make the time

As happy as could be.

The weather held, the sun came out,

Our room, adjacent to

A marina, with its bobbing boats -

All better than we knew.

Today we drove past wineries

And farms with cows and sheep,

Enough to fill my dreams

When, one year older, I will sleep.

At a Vanderbilt Mansion

At a Vanderbilt mansion,*

Two bathrooms surprised,

With features too modern

For me to’ve surmised.

In the owner’s own shower,

One handle controlled

A foot-facing faucet;

If too hot or cold,

You adjusted the temp

‘Til you felt the right heat

Before water would hit you,

Just touching your feet.

Only then, when correct,

Did you turn on the taps.

Maybe otherwise, those 

Really rich would collapse.

In his wife’s room, a scale

In the floor tiles was sending

Her weight at eye level,

Preventing her bending.

These accoutrements really

Allowed me to see

That the rich are quite different

From you and from me.

*William K. Vanderbilt’s mansion,

built between 1910 and 1936.

Millions and Billions

Four hundred million dollars

For a ballroom for the prez,

The funding from some private sources;

Least that’s what he sez.

 

A billion dollars daily

For the conflict in Iran.

You’d think there could be better things

To spend that money on.

 

To people who can’t pay the rent

Or have to sometimes choose

Between food or medications,

It must seem they always lose.

 

Since the government is more concerned

With how it is perceived,

Though the way things are presented,

It’s more mocked now than believed.

 

I try to block these stories

But when mentioned in the news,

All these million billion numbers

Make me want to blow a fuse.

Old Familiar Recipes

Today I measured, chopped and baked

And all from scratch, with nothing faked,

From old familiar recipes

I know, to varying degrees.

 

The matzoh balls I shaped, as well,

(The soup, however, made by Mel*)

And last, charoses** was prepared

With not one nut or apple spared.

 

The kitchen’s not my natural spot,

But on the holidays, I’ve got

The need to potchke*** so I feel

Connected to this ancient meal.

 

My husband asked me why I fuss,

A question worthy to discuss,

Yet all that I can say, for me,

Is this is how it has to be.

 

For even if nobody cared

About these dishes I have shared,

I’ll keep traditions up, unbowed

And know my grandmas would be proud.

 

*my husband  **a dish for the Passover meal

***fiddling or messing around, especially regarding cooking