Preserving the Past

At a history museum, 

Main Street, Milford, in Pa.,

Is a giant flag with blood,

That may be Lincoln’s, on display.

Aside from that, ephemera 

And lots of local lore

Wait for patrons who are visiting

To take time to explore.

I marveled at the hand-sewn quilts,

Their stitches small and neat,

And the menus from hotels, where lunch

Was forty cents to eat.

A woven cradle, clothes and hats,

Old irons, plus the boards,

And uniforms from soldiers 

Were just some of the rewards 

For visiting a building 

Which preserves life in the past.

Who knows how long collections,

Like this treasure trove, may last?

I must admit, though, that what I

Liked best that I did see

Was the dog of the director,

Just as friendly as could be.

Just You Wait

Those of us who’ve reached the age

Of “senior” status know

That many things are different from

The days of long ago.

Yet we remember how it felt

To be a child or teen

Or young adult or middle-aged

And all the years between.

For looking back is easy; we had

Energy to spare,

Youthful bodies, unlined faces 

And a head of healthy hair.

Those of younger age, however,

Cannot ever comprehend

That they’ll lose the version of themselves

On which they now depend.

They are rooted in denial,

Thinking they won’t ever be

Someone looking in a mirror

And not liking what they see.

So the “wisdom” of the old, then,

Is you can’t avoid your fate.

Aging’s guaranteed to happen;

Don’t believe it? Just you wait!

My Grandma’s Genes

My grandma hid her feelings

So by looking at her face,

You couldn’t pinpoint anger

Or if something was off-base.

If she were hurt or worried

Or perturbed, you couldn’t tell,

For her emotions she kept

Tucked inside so very well.

Though I am quite the opposite, 

Since all I feel’s unfurled 

And plastered on my face

So anybody in the world 

Could take one look and wonder

Why I’m ticked off as can be.

I wish my grandma’s genes 

Had gotten passed along to me.

The Snail

Early morning, Carl Schurz Park,

And something caught my eye.

Right near my foot, a snail was 

Inching forward, my oh my!

For surely someone on the path

Would crush his lovely shell;

Protection-wise, it really didn’t

Serve him very well.

I found a leaf and hoped he’d crawl

Upon it; what I’d planned

Was to move him to a place both safe

And on some grassy land.

A stranger saw me crouching down 

And asked was I okay.

I pointed to the snail and thought

He’d soon be on his way.

But “Let me help” was what he said.

He lifted up the leaf

And found the perfect placement 

Which, to all, was a relief.

He asked my name and shook my hand;

Our goodbye smiles agreed

That, by noticing the small things,

We’d both done a real good deed.

Music to All Our Ears

The Summer Arts Intensive,*

Just in session for a week,

Put on a concert which was both

Amazing and unique.

 

The students, playing instruments

From brass and winds to strings

Or vocals, had the chance to shine

And test their new-found wings.

 

My grandson, one of the trombonists

In the group for jazz,

Performed with lots of confidence

And plenty of pizzazz.

 

Eight various ensembles

Got to show what they could do,

Their joy onstage (and those of the

Instructors) there on view.

 

To hear the music that they made,

With so much drive and skill,

Was proof such opportunity

Provides the means to thrill.

 

For, much as we, the audience,

Felt delight we could not hide,

The faces of the ones on stage

Revealed their hard-won pride.

 

*Held at the Conservatory of Music

at Purchase College of New York

Asking Alexa

My grandchild and a friend

Were making posters in her room,

With tape and markers, for a project,

As you might presume.

From time to time, somebody asked

The spelling of a word,

And I should not have been surprised 

At all by what I heard.

“Alexa, how do you spell this?”

Or “How do you spell that?”

It’s good to have an answer ready

In your habitat.

When I was young, our choices were

A dictionary or

A shout-out to whatever mom

Was near to call out for.

I guess there was another choice,

Which would work then or now -

To sound it out and take a chance

You spelled it right somehow.

Scaffolds

The city’s filled with scaffolds;

They remain in place for years.

They’re ugly and at night they might

Increase somebody’s fears

For they provide some shelter

From the elements for those 

Who don’t have a place to live;

Hey, that’s just the way it goes.

They block the sidewalks, making it

Too narrow to walk past

When someone is approaching

If you both are going fast.

The smell of urine’s often strong -

That shelter thing again.

I guess the ease of access is

Too tempting for some men.

I think most urban dwellers

Think that scaffolds are a pain,

But with one exception - if you’ve no

Umbrella in the rain.