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

Just Floating

One quarter of the year has passed;

It seems to me it’s flown by fast

And spring is finally here at last,

The winter just a dream.

 

Those frigid days and piles of snow

Feel like they happened long ago

And, though I know that isn’t so,

Perhaps a bit extreme,

 

When seasons come, they disappear

More quickly every single year.

Despite that knowledge, I’m still here,

Just floating down the stream.

Nothing Lasts

The strap on my leather bag broke,

Its usefulness gone up in smoke.

My old shoe repair,

Like most others, not there,

So on Google my fingers did poke.

 

I found a small old-fashioned place;

Good reviews from the neighborhood base.

So I brought in my bag,

A short walk, not a drag,

And the owner stitched it up apace.

 

Eighteen bucks, which I gratefully paid;

The repair looks like it was well-made.

I asked, “Why did it break?”

He said, “There’s no mistake.

Nothing lasts for all time, I’m afraid.”

 

For that reason, his business exists,

But since life has ironic-type twists,

In these sneaker-clad days,

Tradesmen’s work hardly pays,

Though his livelihood somehow persists.

Holding My Hat

It’s sunny and breezy and lovely, but cold

And I’m days away from another year old.

I’m holding my hat so the wind doesn’t steal it,

Pretending the sun’s warmth means that I don’t feel it.

 

The seagulls are swooping, the branches are blowing;

I sit by the river with no way of knowing

How many more birthdays will grant me a candle

And whether what waits I’ll be able to handle.

 

Perhaps if I focus on merely today

And forget about what may be coming my way,

I’ll be able to soak up the sunshine instead

Of more worries than simply the hat on my head.