Music to All Our Ears

The Summer Arts Intensive,*

Just in session for a week,

Put on a concert which was both

Amazing and unique.

 

The students, playing instruments

From brass and winds to strings

Or vocals, had the chance to shine

And test their new-found wings.

 

My grandson, one of the trombonists

In the group for jazz,

Performed with lots of confidence

And plenty of pizzazz.

 

Eight various ensembles

Got to show what they could do,

Their joy onstage (and those of the

Instructors) there on view.

 

To hear the music that they made,

With so much drive and skill,

Was proof such opportunity

Provides the means to thrill.

 

For, much as we, the audience,

Felt delight we could not hide,

The faces of the ones on stage

Revealed their hard-won pride.

 

*Held at the Conservatory of Music

at Purchase College of New York

Asking Alexa

My grandchild and a friend

Were making posters in her room,

With tape and markers, for a project,

As you might presume.

From time to time, somebody asked

The spelling of a word,

And I should not have been surprised 

At all by what I heard.

“Alexa, how do you spell this?”

Or “How do you spell that?”

It’s good to have an answer ready

In your habitat.

When I was young, our choices were

A dictionary or

A shout-out to whatever mom

Was near to call out for.

I guess there was another choice,

Which would work then or now -

To sound it out and take a chance

You spelled it right somehow.

Scaffolds

The city’s filled with scaffolds;

They remain in place for years.

They’re ugly and at night they might

Increase somebody’s fears

For they provide some shelter

From the elements for those 

Who don’t have a place to live;

Hey, that’s just the way it goes.

They block the sidewalks, making it

Too narrow to walk past

When someone is approaching

If you both are going fast.

The smell of urine’s often strong -

That shelter thing again.

I guess the ease of access is

Too tempting for some men.

I think most urban dwellers

Think that scaffolds are a pain,

But with one exception - if you’ve no

Umbrella in the rain.

Moving Out

When I moved from my parents’ house,

I really couldn’t wait 

To start my life; the leaving was

A cause to celebrate.

A memory occurs to me:

When I approached my mom

To tell her of my plans to move,

I’d not expected calm.

I’d practiced in my head the things

That I had planned to say

When she would protest, practically

Demanding that I stay.

Instead, she offered me my bed 

And dishes, pans and pots.

To realize she was ready, too,

Well, just connect the dots.

I liked my folks; we got along,

Yet it was time to split.

I had a job and never

Second-guessed things, not a bit.

Today it seems that, more and more,

Kids don’t renounce their claim

On their childhood homes and that, to me,

Is really quite a shame.

Handy Randy Redux

If you’re very lucky, you may find

The type of handyman

Who can take care of the problems

That you now no longer can.

Climb a ladder to the roof? No prob -

It’s what he likes to do 

And while up there, he will clean

The cloudy skylights, just for you.

Clogged up gutters? With some gloves

He’ll scoop out leaves and dirt and gunk,

Staying cheerful through it all.

(I know that I’d be in a funk.)

When he’s finished, he will lowball

What he thinks that you should pay.

Do you know of anybody else

Who’d act in that same way?

Handy Randy is this person

Who is capable and fair 

And reliable and really nice,

These attributes so rare.

My Hedge Clippers

I do not have a garden

And my thumb is far from green.

The plants I’ve managed not to kill

Are few and far between.

But when I’m at my country house, 

Where things grow out of whack,

I take my trusty clippers

And I cut the darn things back.

Unwanted weeds and bushes

Get their branches quickly snipped,

Unprepared for the attack by that

With which I am equipped. 

The next time I am here, I’ll have to

Do it all again,

But at least I made a little dent

Until I don’t know when.

A LEO

If your birthday’s in August,

Your horoscope sign 

Might turn out to be Leo

And that would be fine.

But that isn’t at all

What this poem is about,

For my LEO at breakfast,

Without any doubt,

Really jazzed up my morning

And if you’ve no clue 

What I’m talking about,

I’ll explain it to you.

There’s an acronym here 

And the L is for lox,

Which is salmon that’s cured,

Found in most deli stocks.

Now the E is for eggs,

Scrambled just to my taste

And the O is for onions,

Sautéed without haste.

Not all people will like this,

I’m not gonna lie,

But if it’s on the menu,

Please give it a try.