A Class on Zoom

A class on Zoom, as you’d assume,

Attracts its share of crazies,

But in your room, no need to fume;

Just rearrange your daisies

 

Or fill a grid your camera hid,

Completing Sunday’s puzzle,

If the teacher did not place a lid

On some who need a muzzle.

 

With mic sound shut, if every nut

Must jabber with a story,

You tune out, but, your tsk and tut

Won’t dampen someone’s glory.

 

The time will pass and soon your class

Will come to its conclusion

And then, en masse, you leave; the brass

Believing the illusion.

To See a Grandchild Shine

To watch and see a grandchild shine

In a performance is to feel

Like shouting, “Yes, that one is mine!”

Of course his talents do appeal.

 

It’s hard to be objective, but

We want our grandkids to do well.

Still, if they aren’t great, my gut

Would let me know. (Though, would I tell?)

 

Not everybody who performs

In sports or some way on the stage

Will rise up way about the norms

And with the audience engage

 

Except within subjective eyes,

Which always think that they’re the best.

The future, though, holds the surprise

Of who will leave the world impressed.

Canvas Booths

The outdoor art fair has displays

In canvas booths that zip.

When setting up for two days straight,

I guess it saves a trip.

 

I don’t know what security

Is there for overnight,

Though thieves could slice the canvas,

Even if it’s zippered tight.

 

The booths provide protection more

For rain-related times,

The artists likely worried

About damage more than crimes.

 

Today, the second of the fair,

Was raining from the start.

I walked past many zipped-up booths

And couldn’t see much art.

 

Predictions were for sunny weather

In the afternoon.

I'm sure for all the artists

Sunshine couldn’t come too soon.

 

I’m sure some picked up all their work

And didn’t stick around,

While others waited, hoping that

Their business might rebound.

Texts Will Fly

On holidays, the texts will fly;

Good wishes will begin.

There is no need to wonder why;

That’s how it’s always been

At least since texting was a thing;

Before that, cards were sent.

The mailman was the one to bring

Somebody’s good intent.

It’s strange it takes a holiday 

For people to connect,

But that’s become the common way

And what you would expect.

Yet still, it’s nice to hear that ding

And see upon the screen

A greeting that your phone does bring

From one you’ve hardly seen.

That Day’s Events

Today’s a date you can’t forget,

When evil had its way.

To all responders, there’s a debt

We never can repay.

The world may mourn, but locals feel

A different kind of grief.

For here the shock was all too real;

We watched in disbelief.

For months we read the flyers

Of the missing and we woke

To the smell of all the fires,

Sadness mingling with the smoke.

In the classrooms, they’ll be teaching 

Versions of that day’s events,

But, for most, it won’t be reaching

What that horror represents.

Pulling the Plug

To honor someone’s talent

While excusing certain views

Which the world may deem offensive

Is the stuff that makes the news.

 

For a well-endowed museum,

With a Costume Institute,

Planned to showcase a designer

Who’s the face of ill repute.

 

Known for comments that disparage

People different from his type,

Nonetheless, his output thrives

With many drawn into the hype.

 

Yet the show for Galliano,

With Ms. Wintour’s staunch support,

Raised the hackles of some donors

And those critics got to thwart

 

What, to me, was recognition

That should surely be reserved

For designers with both talent

And integrity observed.

 

Sometimes those with too much power

Make decisions which, I’d bet,

Turn the tide to flow against them,

Though they harbor no regret.

The Traits That Define

People are the way they are;

You take ‘em or you leave ‘em.

They tell you things about themselves;

You do or don’t believe ‘em.

 

The one thing you cannot expect

Is that you’ll ever change ‘em,

For trying to might backfire

And, in that case, you’ll estrange ‘em.

 

We all have faults, though some are blind

To how some others see ‘em,

Yet most of us would never trade

Our faults for theirs, to be ‘em.

 

We must accept in those we love

The traits that do define ‘em,

The positives and negatives,

The way that they combine ‘em

 

And realize they must do the same

For us, when we’re beside ‘em,

Despite the fact we all believe

We take our faults and hide ‘em.