I am back on my bench
With the river in view.
People walk by in t-shirts;
The sky’s bright and blue.
There’s one small mound of snow
Which is coated in black.
It’s refusing to melt,
Fending off spring’s attack.
Flowers haven’t appeared
But the stage has been set.
By tomorrow, that snow
Will be gone, I would bet.
Sitting in a diner booth
Is cozy and
inviting.
To me, such
places are, in truth,
The tables
most delighting.
When offered
booth or table,
There’s no
contest; I will choose
A booth which
will enable
Me to chill
out and enthuse.
At dinner, I
like atmosphere
And
candlelight and chairs,
A place to
sip an ice-cold beer
And wait
while food prepares.
Yet for breakfast
or a lunchtime meal,
My
preference tends to be
A diner with
the main appeal
Of booths
for friends and me.
My husband
likes a table most
But will not
raise his voice
When we end up
in, you might have guessed,
A booth. (He
has no choice!)
The band’s composed of middle-schoolers
From within the state.
Most have never met before,
Yet right from out the gate,
Their music sounds incredible,
Professional and full
And any passerby would feel
Its strong inviting pull.
Of course, I try to listen for
One close-to-me trombone,
But in a band the point is that
No sound exists alone.
We’ll attend the concert later
Yet I’m glad we happened by,
Catching part of the rehearsal;
Kvelling* privileges apply.
*bubbling over with immense joy (Yiddish)
Two hundred miles of driving
For tomorrow’s concert date,
Where we’ll watch our grandson play trombone
And get to celebrate.
It’s quite a feather in his cap
To make the state-wide band
And anyone with grandkids
I am sure will understand.
We never know how many
Chances in the years ahead
We might have to make these efforts;
I will leave “until” unsaid.
So we’re rolling on the highway
With our trusty brand-new tires,
Glad to be a part of this event
Before our time expires.
Hooray! It’s time to write a poem
About an
absolute
Disgrace by name
of Kristi Noem,
Who finally
got the boot.
A spotlight-craving
dilettante
Who shot her
dog and goat
Is not the
person most would want
To hold a
job of note.
Yet there she
was, in camo gear,
Like she was
set for war,
Though all
her make-up made it clear
That she was
out for more.
In ad
campaigns she was the star,
With mucho
millions spent,
To showcase
her as Homeland’s czar,
Her failures
evident.
What
bothered me (and maybe you)
The most,
with all she spewed,
Was, more
than what she tried to do,
Her nasty
attitude.
Good riddance,
now; it’s way past time
The reign of
Kristi Noem
Gets its comeuppance, though with rhyme,
She isn’t worth
this poem.
We cling to traditions
And habits
and friends
And gatherings
where
No one
lately attends.
It’s hard to
let go
But how long
one pretends
Things are
just like they were –
Well, that
kind of depends.
If whatever
we cling to
In some way
extends
To those
with whom we share it,
That surely
transcends
Any reason
to lose it.
Still, time’s
flow portends
Letting go
is expected,
Since everything
ends.
A donut requires a dunk
And a stone,
sitting creekside, a plunk.
With the
first, there’s a dip
And the
second, a skip,
Both delightful
as thoughts to have thunk.
