Melania

I haven’t seen “Melania” -

To do so, I’ve no plans,

For I am not, in any shape 

Or form, one of her fans.

It’s just another instance of

A move that’s gauche and crass,

To rub into our faces

All the bad that’s come to pass.

Our country ruled by tyrants,

Lowlifes bringing fear and strife

And now 40 million dollars

Spent to showcase one such wife.

Just to think of all that money

And the homes that it could build 

Wasted on each White House lily,

Which just reprobates would gild.

When I checked “Rotten Tomatoes,”

Which rates many movie picks,

I was not surprised to see it rated

With a lowly 6.

Called self-serving and pathetic,

Boring, dull and bad and bland, 

Critics hated it but not her fans,

Who grovel on command.

Winging It

There are people who measure

And those who do not;

People who test drive

Or give it a shot.

 

People who research

And those who just act;

Those with rough guesses

Opposed to exact.

 

Some follow instructions

Right down to a T,

While others will wing it

(And that includes me).

 

I don’t have the patience

To make things ideal.

If something’s not perfect,

It’s not a big deal.

 

I like that philosophy

Most of the time,

But I have exceptions

When it comes to rhyme!

Catherine O'Hara

Who couldn’t love Catherine O’Hara?

In every performance, she rocked.

The news of her death, unexpected,

Left her fans and her co-workers shocked.

 

“Home Alone” might have granted her stardom,

But her movies with Christopher Guest

Brought her comedy chops to the forefront

And, to me, those were some of her best.

 

Yet my favorite of all of the people

She inhabited while at her peak

Was, I’m sure you can tell by my rhyming,

Moira Rose, matriarch of “Schitt’s Creek.”

 

In this role, she was over-dramatic,

Clueless as to how she was perceived,

But despite how eccentric she played it,

She was someone we always believed.

 

Just to watch her you couldn’t help smile;

She brought joy that no one could resist.

Now the world’s mourning Catherine O’Hara,

Who will surely be very much missed.

The Coat Check Line

We waited for the coat check

Since our winter garb is bulky

And schlepping it around could make

Us feel a little sulky.

 

The Met was far from crowded

Yet the line was barely crawling.

We inched along impatiently;

As members, it was galling.

 

At last we made it to the front;

No claim checks were presented.

Instead, you tapped your number

On a keypad; none dissented.

 

When we were set to leave,

After a lovely afternoon,

We lined up once again,

Our crawl repeating much too soon.

 

But as we zipped our jackets up,

I noticed that adjacent

To the line we left was one where

Not one person was impatient.

 

For it was meant for members,

Which describes our situation.

Had we known about it sooner,

We’d have saved some aggravation.

Six More Weeks

Both Punxsutawney Phil

And local Staten Island Chuck

Saw their shadows which, on Groundhog Day,

Means we are out of luck.

 

It seems that winter will be here

For 6 more weeks, at least,

If you believe predictions made

By this forecasting beast.

 

Supposedly, this got its start

When Pennsylvania Dutch

Marked Candlemas as “Badger Day”

And it remained as such

 

Since 1886, when if

A badger left its den

And sunshine cast its shadow,

Spring would not be seen again

 

For 4 more weeks (though now it’s 6),

Which might cause disbelief;

Though with this cold, an ending date

Would be a great relief!

Cocky

In tennis, the players

Whom I am embracing

Are those who are, most

Of the time, self-effacing.

 

They might crack a smile

If they make a great shot

Or give a huge shout,

But one thing they are not

 

Is cocky, encouraging

Fans to applaud.

To me, that’s behavior

Obnoxious and flawed.

 

Some beckon with hand signals:

“Give me some praise!”

Or grab both their ears

For some louder displays.

 

It reminds me of someone,

You’ll surely surmise,

Who demands to be handed

A Nobel Peace prize.

 

For those most deserving

Of tributes to bask in

Are those who would never

Sink low and start askin’.

A Mountain of Snow

Next to our car is a mountain of snow,

Which has frozen as hard as a rock.

Ours isn’t the only one locked in, although

It’s the worst one around the whole block.

 

We’re parked on the side where the plows seemed to push

All the snow that was blocking the street

And because of the freeze, what should turn into mush

Has instead made our blockade complete.

 

We have nowhere to go and can get to the train

When we need to help out with the grands,

So on 89^th Street, our poor car will remain

For as long as the weather demands.

 

We’ve been through this before, but it’s been a few years

Since we’ve dealt with both snow and such cold

And my husband and I, plus our car, it appears,

Feel the mileage we’ve gained taking hold.