A Sukkah

For a certain Jewish holiday,

A sukkah is erected,

An outdoor booth whose shelter

Keeps inhabitants protected.

Religious people take their meals

And socialize and sleep 

In this temporary structure,

So traditions they can keep.

Each year, a sukkah somehow

In my neighborhood appears

By the efforts of a local group

Of Jewish volunteers. 

It’s very bare-bones, just enough

To signal its intent

And those of the religion know

Exactly what is meant.

The sukkah stays there for a week;

Its visitors are few,

But yesterday I passed it

And I noticed something new.

An unhoused man was stretched out,

Like the sukkah was his home,

A different way to use it,

But just perfect for a poem.

The Imaginary Invalid

In the seventeenth century,

The playwright Moliere

Wrote a satire that I saw today,

With the brilliant adapting

Bill Irwin can bring

In his very hilarious way.

 

What struck me the most,

Dazzling acting aside,

Was how current and fresh were the themes,

For though centuries passed

Since the play was conceived,

People fall for the very same schemes.

 

There is love, there is greed,

There are scams and the fear

Of both dying and being perceived

As a fool or a clown

Or a windbag or prig,

Plus the need to somehow be believed.

 

As the audience laughed

And the cast, tongue in cheek,

Played their humorous parts with delight,

I was grateful to witness

The words come alive

That on stage, long ago, first took flight.

If I Go to See a Concert

If I go to see a concert,

I want music that I like,

So what I expect to hear 

From a performer with a mic

Is a new or old song, maybe with

Some background to be shared

On the way the lyrics came about, 

In case somebody cared.

What I don’t want to experience

Is politics on stage,

Despite the fact the audience

Might want to so engage.  

A show with an agenda

Should be advertised that way,

So ticket buyers are prepared 

For what the stars will say.

Though some venues might be fitting

For performers speaking out,

At a music concert, that’s not what

The evening is about.

A Pessimistic Poem

A pilot attacked;

People pushed onto tracks.

A Central Park murder

And ICE men attacks.

 

Mistreatment of animals;

Internet scams.

Collapsing of bridges

And traffic-caused jams.

 

Polar ice melting

And water-drained lakes.

Deaths from narcotics,

Tornados and quakes.

 

Voting laws challenged

And prices that rise.

Wars being fought

For a leader who lies.

 

Turn on the news

And you’ll wish you had not.

Hope fizzles out

But it’s all that we’ve got.

 

Soon we’ll be facing

The reign of A.I.

Yet still, I write poems,

Though I’m wondering why.

In Paris Parks 1954

Today, for thirteen minutes,

It was 1954

And I found myself in Paris,

Mesmerized and wanting more.

 

Watching people, mostly children,

Interacting in a park

Was a pleasure to observe,

Thanks to a film by Shirley Clarke.

 

From the clothing (nothing denim!)

To the rides and carousel,

Life was captured in such detail,

By the faces you could tell

 

That the park was someplace special

Since an ordinary day

Brought so much to each expression

That each person did display.

 

A puppet show, my favorite part,

Caught joy and fear and glee,

The reactions of the children

Such a privilege to see.

 

I could have been among them

Had I been a child in France,

But today I was transported;

MOMA* let me have my chance.

 

*Museum of Modern Art, New York City

Peripheral

I feel like I’m peripheral

In everybody’s life

Except, of course, my husband’s,

With my closeness as his wife.

 

I suppose that’s how it should be

Once the kids have up and flown

From the nest that you created,

With your grandkids almost grown.

 

Siblings also have their families,

As do all my dearest friends.

Where I once felt integral to some,

My mind now comprehends

 

That I’m stuck here on the outside

And my entry’s been denied.

Still, for now, I’m front and center

When my husband’s by my side.

Memorizing a Poem

In school, we sometimes were assigned

To memorize some verse

And so, at home, in front of parents,

We would, thus, rehearse.

 

We then presented what we’d learned

In class or on a stage,

Without the benefit of notes

Or glancing at a page.

 

Amazingly, when thinking back

On rhymes that we had nailed,

We find them still intact; our teacher’s

Mandate has prevailed.

 

Though teaching’s changed in many ways,

For better or for worse,

It’s satisfying somehow

To recite a once-learned verse.