A Horse

My husband says he wants a horse,

Which could be reason for divorce.

That’s if his wish were true, of course,

But it is simply not.

 

His horse fixation is a joke,

Though it’s been years since he first spoke

Of owning one; each little poke

Confirming he forgot

 

That hobby horse I gave him, which

I’d thought would satisfy that itch.

Yet now he’s on a brand-new pitch

To take another shot.

 

We live in New York city, though;

We have no place for hay to stow

Nor land for galloping, so whoa!

He can’t be hot to trot.

 

The funny part is knowing Mel

Would not, upon a horse, do well.

He’ll hate this poem, but I can tell

Deep down, he knows what’s what.

Whackos

The world is full of whackos

If you listen to the news,

And not just those who do not share

Your values or your views.

 

It’s not always mental illness

That makes certain folks behave

In a way that spreads discomfort

In the way they rant and rave.

 

An unruly person flying

Bit a passenger on board,

Just another fine example

Of the point I’m aiming toward.

 

There’s another tale of someone

On a plane who left his seat

And attempted opening a door

At 30,000 feet.

 

Hey, right here in New York City,

I have sensors to avoid

All those people on the streets

Who leave me scared more than annoyed.

 

Life is challenging for many

But it seems at every turn

There’s a whacko waiting in the wings

To cause you some concern.

Cufflinks

Does anyone still buy, for dad,

Some cufflinks on this day?

It’s what I sometimes bought for mine

When shirts were made that way.

 

It had to be a local store

Which carried varied clothes,

Including the accessories;

That’s how the mem’ry goes.

 

My dad’s been gone for many years,

Those cufflinks likely tossed.

His place within my heart, though,

Hasn’t ever gotten lost.

 

I wish a Happy Fathers’ Day

To all who fit the bill

And hope, with cufflinks or without,

Somebody’s heart you’ll fill.

In the Gift Shop

In the gift shop of the Met*

I watch to see what people get.

The kids are mostly drawn to toys,

With Lego building sets for boys

 

And for the girls, a teddy bear

Or other stuffies which compare.

Women look at mugs or tees

Or jewelry, all kinds to please,

 

While men check hats or socks or ties,

No need to bother with a size.

For everyone within the store,

Of course, they’re selling books galore.

 

There, naturally, are art supplies -

In a museum, no surprise.

On offer are pastels and clay,

Plus paints and pencils on display.

 

A scarf collection caught my eye,

But mostly I’ll give in and buy

When I’m a tourist; then the urge

For souvenirs will let me splurge.

 

*Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC

Food for Thought

A fireboat goes zipping by;

A seaplane glides across the sky.

Not many folks around, but I

Am glad to be outside.

 

A group of sparrows swoop and fly

While joggers, on a runner’s high,

Race past, as, with a saddish sigh,

Some elders must decide

 

If they should sit or maybe try

To push ahead, no longer spry.

I understand their reasons why,

The past a faulty guide.

 

The ferry empties. Rules apply

For disembarking; most comply.

My time for heading home is nigh,

My food for thought supplied.

Watching the Parade

The Knicks parade was on TV

And that was close enough for me.

I cannot even blame my age;

I’ve hated crowds at any stage.

 

Yet for the celebrants, most young,

They loved it all, to be among

Their fellow fans, all there to cheer

Their favorite moment of the year.

 

To see their heroes and unite,

No politics, which might incite

Divisiveness, so very wrong

When fans all seem to get along.

 

The festive spirit will not last,

For from examples in the past,

We know it isn’t “if” but “when”

Hostilities will rise again.

Puzzling

Puzzles will appeal to me

When words are what you need

To solve them; then, most likely,

I’ve a good chance to succeed.

 

A tough crossword or acrostic

Sets a challenge I enjoy,

For it taps into the brain cells

That I often do employ.

 

Yet once numbers are involved,

I’m simply clueless and so lost

That it isn’t worth the failure

And frustration it has cost.

 

Give me Shuffalos and Spelling Bees;

I’ll take that letter path

But don’t try to steer me to the route

Which travels using math.