Listening to the Band Rehearse

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

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!

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.

Letting Go

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.

What Rhymers Do in the Middle of the Night

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.

What's Left

What’s left of the snow

Are some scattershot mounds,

The piles that from shovels

Stayed way out of bounds.

 

I spotted some toddlers,

In bright-colored boots,

Attempting to climb some,

With giggles and hoots.

 

What’s really a pity’s

That old city snow,

While pristine when falling

And perfect to throw,

 

Turns black from pollution

And leftover piles

Elicit annoyance

Where once there were smiles.

 

The melting has started

And, as it gets warm,

That blackness will vanish

And puddles will form.

 

Of course, we’ll remember,

In memory’s sight,

The mountains of early snow,

Magically white.

Where You Walk

After being cooped inside

Because of cold or snow,

A warmer sunny day demands

You get outside and go!

 

Depending on your lifestyle,

If you leave to get some air,

You choose a place to perk you up

And mosey over there.

 

One friend of mine adores the beach,

So she will take a drive

And hit the boardwalk for a stroll

To make her feel alive.

 

Another lives in warmer climes

But when she needs her space,

She hits a nature sanctuary;

That’s her go-to place.

 

And as for me, when I am drawn

Outside to take a walk,

I’m happiest just traipsing on

The sidewalks of New Yawk.