The Met Gala

Tonight’s the Met Gala;

I wasn’t invited

And here, in my jeans,

I don’t feel at all slighted.

I don’t wear couture 

And the funds that they’ll raise

Are a little beyond

What my pension fund pays.

I’ll read in The Times

What celebrities wear

And no one in the crowd

Will take note I’m not there.

At a recent Met visit,

I gazed at the art,

Much better than fashion

That sets folks apart.

Though some chairmen who took

Over Venice to wed

Think the world would prefer

Seeing them there instead.

Dilemma

I bought a new wind chime,

A for-myself treat

And think it looks lovely,

Its melody sweet.

But where should I hang it?

It’s windy today

So it will sound dulcet

As tree branches sway.

Yet when I’m in the house

And it’s dangling outside, 

I won’t hear it at all

So I have to decide

If perhaps I should hang it

Indoors, where I’d swat it

To hear its sweet music,

‘Cause that’s why I got it.

Still, that would defeat

Its true purpose by name,

For chiming in wind 

Is its one claim to fame.

That settles it! I’ll find

A branch on a tree

Where, when coming or going,

That sweet sound will be.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

In 7^th grade English, my class got to read,

With Mrs. Kaminsky, my first

Taste of Shakespeare, the dream of “A Midsummer Night”

And for weeks we were fully immersed.

 

We couldn’t have done it alone, without help –

The language and style, to us

Was a challenge and yet with our teacher to guide,

We sailed through it without too much fuss.

 

I’d need a refresher to dig out the plot

From the recesses deep in my brain,

Though the love of the language and what it inspired,

Front and center, to this day, remain.

 

My grandson just told me (he’s 7^th grade now)

That in school, with his class, he’ll soon start

The very same play, his first Shakespeare, as well,

And that knowledge tapped into my heart.

 

I hope I can find my old copy from school,

Which is scribbled with jottings I wrote

When, to 7^th grade me, the idea of a grandson

Was more than remotely remote.

The Saturday Crossword

I finished a Saturday crossword,*

The hardest one offered each week.

It took me a while

But earned me a smile 

And the constant reminder I seek

That my brain cells, although I am aging,

Are still functioning well enough to

Fill in all of the squares

That some person prepares

So we solvers can track down each clue.

It’s a sense of accomplishment, truly;

Other puzzlers know just what I mean.

Though we do it alone,

We are, each of us, prone

To a chance to internally preen.

*last Saturday’s New York Times puzzle,

solved today 

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.