New Year's Eve

Another year has come and gone;
It’s hard to comprehend.
Although it’s proper to move on,
We must absorb the end.

But first we should reflect a bit
And savor, like a wine,
The highs and lows we can’t omit
From two thousand and nine.

Each person has a private list;
It’s not required to share.
Both bad and good things do exist;
Ignore them if you dare.

It’s natural if you think you must
Unpleasant times erase,
But realize, just like when you dust,
More dirt will take its place.

So focus on the upbeat days
That sprinkled you with magic;
And manage to avert your gaze
From moments that were tragic.

For each new year’s a brand-new start;
We wipe the tablet clean,
And hopefully we can outsmart
The bad that lurks unseen.

The calendar awaits, afresh
With dates for us to fill;
The ups and downs – they will enmesh.
By now, we know the drill.

So let us start another year
With hope that once again,
Our joy will far surpass our fear
In two thousand and ten.

Pissed Off at the Movies

I went to the movies to see a new flick;
There were quite a few to choose.
But the theater’s bathroom made me sick;
For women, that ain’t news.

I don’t require tiles of pink
Or flowers on display,
But why must I smell such a stink?
You’d think that they could spray!

And I could write a movie plot,
A real detective caper,
‘Bout stalls equipped with diddly-squat
Instead of toilet paper.

Plus, every door should have a hook
To hang your bag and coat,
But most are gone – what kind of crook
Would such a crime promote?

Although some movies are superb,
The bathroom often sucks.
Such negligence sure does perturb,
Especially for twelve bucks!

Haircut

I never like getting my hair cut;
It’s awkward and I’m ill at ease.
If the hairdresser is unfamiliar,
How she’ll do offers no guarantees.

So you sit and you stare in the mirror,
Are confronted with proof of your age;
And you chit chat and watch her and wonder,
Is she good? But you really can’t gauge.

As she snips and engages in small talk,
You sure hope her diploma implies
That she’ll finish and you won’t be left with
A strange person you don’t recognize.

But no matter the outcome, I figure,
As she calculates what I am owing,
That tomorrow I’ll wake up and know that
My short hair will already be growing!

Surf City

The surf store in my neighborhood
Finally did close.
The ocean’s miles away
And so it figures, I suppose.

I never really understood
Who were its clientele;
Although, of course, a surfer can
Within a city dwell.

But where’d they take their lessons?
The East or Hudson River?
I’d think that both would lack the waves
An ocean could deliver.

I hope the customers have found
A new place they can surf,
With possibly some better swells
Than New York City turf!

Flat Tire

Sometimes on the road of life,
No matter where you’re at,
You realize you’re not moving
‘Cause a tire has gone flat.

You cannot just ignore it;
It will not fix itself.
And unlike things like clutter,
You can’t hide it on a shelf.

It must be dealt with quickly;
The problem must be patched.
And if you’re far away from help
Your plans may just get scratched.

But often it’s a hassle
That requires some attending,
And then you’re on your way again,
The inconvenience ending.

And so you journey onward,
With tire fixed and steady;
But something else may trip you up
Of course, when you’re not ready.

Remember as you travel,
Wherever you have driven,
In life you have to handle
All the flats that you are given.

Neighbors

A neighbor in distress last night
Did knock upon our door;
Although we do not know her well,
Her plea we’d not ignore.

She didn’t want to be alone;
The ambulance was coming.
We opened up our home to her;
To nerves she was succumbing.

My husband, in a soothing tone,
Relaxed her, like a balm;
And though anxiety remained,
She struggled to stay calm.

The police and EMT’s arrived;
They strapped her on a gurney.
I scribbled our phone numbers
And they took her on her journey.

I tracked her down today to see
If she had been admitted;
She told me yes, but she’d get out
As soon as was permitted.

She thanked me awkwardly, I felt,
Although it did suffice.
The irony is that to us
She wasn’t very nice.

She never smiled a greeting,
She complained we were too loud;
And surely she was mortified
That we saw her so bowed.

I guess there is a lesson:
Don’t give in to the freedom
To antagonize your neighbors,
‘Cause someday you might need ‘em.

A Christmas Memory

A long time ago on a Christmas day,
My husband and I, on a trip, away
From New York’s always-open status,
Got some advice, which was offered, gratis.

We’d asked the hotel clerk if he’d recommend
A restaurant nearby where we’d hoped to spend
A few passing hours by candlelight,
Two non-celebrants on a Christmas night.

The clerk was astounded and with harsh gaze,
Said something like – pardon the paraphrase –
“All restaurants far as the eye can see
Are closed today, and that’s how it should be,

‘Cause everyone has cause to celebrate.”
Our question did nothing but aggravate.
So dinner that night was a chocolate bar,
Some apples and wine we had in the car.

We ate and drank, settled beside the fire;
Turns out that much else we would not require.
And next day we woke at the crack of dawn
And indulged in a true breakfast marathon.

I remember this day almost every year
And several things jump out at me real clear:
The clerk was so wrong, because on this date
There are many folks who do not celebrate.

And in New York City, they hear our voices,
So we do have quite a few restaurant choices.
I also realize that when you are young,
And circumstances cause you to be flung

Beyond your control, you will get right through,
Especially if there are two of you.
Years later, I smile as I do remember
That New England trip in a cold December.

Wherever you’re eating your Christmas meal,
I hope that there’s love in your heart to feel.
If you’ve someone to share it with, you’ll be fine,
Even if it’s some chocolate, fruit, and wine.

Gifts

In this season filled with giving,
Many folks would sure be miffed
If they got a greeting card
That didn’t come complete with gift.

There’s a certain expectation
That a present’s de rigueur;
So we give in and go shopping,
Burdened by this season’s chore.

What to get for teenaged nephews?
How about long-distant niece?
Siblings? Parents? Friends and doormen?
Never does the list decrease.

Car mechanics and beauticians,
Mailmen, nurses, secretaries,
Therapists, garage attendants,
Those who lie in cemeteries.

Write a check to feed the hungry,
Send in funds to help the sick.
All diseases want donations;
Can’t depend on Old Saint Nick.

Shop in stores or on computers,
Mark each person on your list;
Double-check ‘cause you don’t want to
Face the person you have missed.

Finally, you’ve made selections;
Purchases are in the mail.
Naturally, you realize later,
Everything just went on sale!

Still, it’s finished, done, completed;
You can breathe in real relief,
‘Til you open what you’ve gotten
And you stare in disbelief.

‘Cause it’s rarely what you wanted,
Even though the effort’s there;
Your recipients may feel the same
But now you just don’t care.

All you know is that you struggled,
Hoping each gift would announce,
You are loved – I gave my best shot –
It’s the thought that really counts!

Grown-Up

I met my son for lunch today.
He paid; it was his treat.
I didn’t order very much,
But it was still so sweet.

You never really think of this
When kids are young and clinging,
That someday roles will be reversed
And for the check, they’re springing.

Their babyhood went much too fast,
Their childhood took a minute;
And suddenly their lives are theirs
And you’re glad if you’re in it.

So to young parents, heed my words
And savor every part
Of your child’s progress through the years
And seal it in your heart.

For way before you’re ready to
Acknowledge they are grown,
Your children have flown from the nest
And you are all alone.

I know that it’s supposed to be
Exactly as I’ve written;
But as a mother, you’ll remain
Forever proud and smitten.

I hope one day that every mom
Can feel her job complete
When having lunch with her grown son,
In every way a treat.

Stress

When things in life do overwhelm
And everything you second guess,
You are no longer at the helm –
You’re first mate on the S.S. Stress.

Bombarded by a storm at sea,
You’re battered and cannot progress;
The gods ignore your paltry plea –
You aren’t on their list to bless.

No matter whence your problems come,
What counts is that they do oppress;
And you will grab at any crumb,
Succumbing to a false caress.

For friends’ and relatives’ advice
May help to make your anguish less;
But often you will pay a price
When inner fears you do express.

The life preservers may appear
Accessible to ease distress,
But often it’s not very clear
If you’ll reach safety with success.

It may be tempting to decide
To jump ship if you don’t possess
Somebody who is qualified
To help your worries to regress.

But if you find a kindred soul
To be supportive, more or less,
You’ll hopefully regain control
And rise above the day’s duress.

The sea may not return to calm -
I cannot lie with real finesse;
But having help may be the balm
To soothe you in the midst of mess.

So grab that life vest with full force
And change all negatives to yes;
And set sail on a different course,
Where you won’t need an S.O.S.

Procrastination

I’m a member of a tribe
That needs no application;
Not Cherokee or Navajo,
It’s called Procrasti-nation.

You’ll know if you are one of us,
Can tell if you belong;
I’m not proud to admit it,
But we’re many millions strong.

Our bills are paid last minute;
Our gifts are always late.
Library books are oft returned
Beyond the stamped due date.

For tests we’re used to cramming;
We shouldn’t be admired.
We miss those special offers
‘Cause it’s too late – they’ve expired.

Forget our best friends’ birthdays;
Put off mopping up the floors.
Actually we do delay
Most of the cleaning chores.

We should make those appointments
With doctors to see yearly.
The dentist’s office had to call –
I meant to go – sincerely!

Our thank you notes are written,
Just waiting to be mailed.
If doing things last-minute were a crime,
We’d all be jailed.

There isn’t any cure for this,
Though you may speculate;
You’re either born an early-bird
Or you procrastinate.

And if you are a member
Of the tribe, the indicator
Is if our motto does appeal:
“I think I’ll do it later!”

Hype

Dear Weatherman, I have a gripe
About your dark prediction:
Too often you build up the hype;
It’s just like an addiction.

A storm’s a-brewing, coming soon,
You utter, so bombastic.
Better be inside by noon!
I wish you were sarcastic.

On the radio you blurt,
Now batten down the hatches!
Shoppers go on high alert;
Reality detaches.

Panicked folks prepare and then
Await the storm’s arrival,
Pondering the hour when
They’ll fight for mere survival.

Snow arrives, but hours late;
Starts with just a dusting.
Still the fear does not abate;
People are so trusting.

Plans are canceled, rearranged
In anticipation.
Dire predictions haven’t changed,
No alleviation.

Snow continues, leaves a coat;
Roads are icy slick.
Weatherman gets set to gloat,
‘Cause that’s what makes him tick.

But ho! The blizzard soon subsides
And for the weathercaster,
This unexpected turn provides
A taste of true disaster.

The loyal listeners are numb,
And shake their heads in wonder.
They know that next time, they’ll succumb
To the weatherman’s next blunder.

Bad News

Sometimes you cannot avoid it;
You’ll be hit with a negative smack.
It may be some news you’ve prepared for,
Or likely a sneaky attack.

You’re losing your job or your car or your nerve;
Your child’s been arrested or worse.
Your spouse is unfaithful with Tiger-like claws;
You feel like you’re under a curse.

Your credit card debts have exceeded the max;
That lump is malignant - it’s cancer.
That fight with your friend means your friendship might end –
You call – she refuses to answer.

Your wallet’s been lifted – they stole your ID;
Bad weather has canceled your flight.
Your stress level’s climbing right up to the roof;
You’re tossing and turning all night.

Your meter expired – your ticket awaits;
You slip on the ice and need stitches.
No matter how carefully you plan your day,
You can never rule out sudden glitches.

So as each new day dawns, steel yourself and expect
To be knocked for a loop with bad news;
And if you’re left alone, thank those stars up above,
But tomorrow, prepare for the screws!

Chanukah Candles

On Chanukah evenings, my brothers and I
Would make bets on which candle would last.
As gambling goes, the sheer pleasure of that
To this day still remains unsurpassed.

I sit here tonight, miles away from my sibs,
And stare at the flickering flames;
I’m rooting for candle 5, just in my mind;
There’s no one to honor my claims.

My husband won’t join me – he can’t understand
How this magical moment of truth
Can carry me back through the years that have passed
And return me to days of my youth.

So come on, candle 5, you can do it, I’m sure –
Don’t surrender or give up the fight;
I’ll be disappointed if you fizzle out,
But the memories fill me with delight.

Craft Fairs

At a craft fair, in the stalls,
Folks display their wares;
Hoping that a customer
And sale will soon be theirs.

Jewelry and pottery
And scarves made out of silk
Are laid out creatively
With objects of their ilk.

Most are lovely, special, rare,
Utterly unique;
And the artisans await
Acknowledgement they seek.

“Here I am – here’s what I do!”
Their products help beseech.
“Do you like me? Am I good?”
I hear their silent speech.

Such naked yearning gets to me;
It seems a bit unsettling,
And so I always compliment
Whatever they are peddling.

So much of it is beautiful
But even if I hate it,
I feel the maker’s need to please
And I won’t devastate it.

So I peruse, appraise, inspect –
I compliment and smile;
And after it’s appropriate,
I mosey down the aisle.

Sometimes I do buy a piece,
For me or for a gift,
And I can tell my purchase
Really gives a needed lift.

I do admire artists -
They create to self-fulfill;
But someone who appreciates their work
Gives them a thrill.

It’s really human nature
That most people will construe:
If someone likes the job you do,
They probably like you, too!

So next time at a craft fair,
Take your time at each design,
And realize that much more
Than jewelry is on the line.

Turbulence

Most flights, even if they’re smooth,
Will hit a patch of pitch;
It cannot be prevented and,
It’s not a pilot’s glitch.

You’re reading, chatting, or a-snooze,
And suddenly, you’re jolted.
A flight attendant reassures,
“The pilot’s haven’t bolted.

It’s just a little turbulence.
Your seat belt must be buckled.”
Easier for her to say,
While you sit there, white-knuckled.

Usually the calm returns.
The bumpiness recedes,
And folks relax and breathe relief;
The journey now proceeds.

It’s just like life: we travel on
A road whose ruts are hidden;
And sometimes, unexpectedly,
They trip us up, unbidden.

But hopefully, we straighten up
And reattain our bearing;
Though surprises wait for us,
There’s really no preparing.

Still we venture out each day,
For hope is instrumental;
Though turbulence may come our way,
We hope our ride is gentle.

Vacation

Tomorrow I'll be back at home
To sleep in my own bed,
And in Room 306, there will be
Someone else instead.

Someone's feet will stand where mine
Have stepped into the shower;
Maybe flakes of me remain,
If maids did not quite scour.

New people will sleep upon
The mattress and the pillows;
They'll sit on the balcony
And gaze at palms and willows.

Other folks will shade themselves
Beneath hut 508;
They'll be working on their tans
While mine evaporates.

It's a strange phenomenon
To have the realization,
We're on and off the carousel
When we are on vacation.

Eating Out

For many people, eating out
Is just about the food.
They don't care if the atmosphere
Contributes to the mood.

Is the chef inventive?
The ingredients real fresh?
Then that's enough for them, whether
In France or Bangladesh.

Others need a spectacle,
With sommelier and waiter;
Fancy dishes, tablecloths,
A top-notch decorator.

The sauces are quite complex,
The wine list is extensive;
In other words, as you might guess,
The meal will be expensive.

I love to eat in restaurants,
But my concerns are few:
Decent food and candlelight
And on tap, frothy brew.

I also savor crisp french fries
And food that's not too spicy,
A friendly vibe, pie a la mode,
A wine list not too pricey.

If I could eat outdoors - that's great!
In winter, near a fire;
And casual's what I prefer
For ambiance and attire.

Although I don't sound fussy,
Don't possess food-snob syndrome,
If I can't find a place I like,
I'd rather eat at home!

Cutting the Line

Waiting in line is just something we do
Quite often, in varying places;
In theaters, at movies, in markets to pay,
At airports with rolling suitcases.

We line up to enter museum or court
Or any historical site,
So we can be scanned and our bags can be checked
And few people put up a fight.

Need a new license? A passport or stamp?
Join us as we count each minute,
Reading or chatting or grumbling 'cause
Time's a'wasting and we are stuck in it.

But every line, whether snaking or straight,
Has a set down acknowledged decorum;
We patiently wait until someone does not -
And then we cannot just ignore 'em.

Yes, you know who you are - Yes I'm talking to you:
The obnoxiously boorish line-cutter.
Most of us will just stare, shake our heads, roll our eyes,
But a few will do more than just mutter.

For there's always one soul with a really big mouth
Who will challenge the line-cutter's game.
"There's a line here, you know - you must get to the back!"
But the line-cutter suffers no shame.

He might lie - "I was here" or feign ignorance, but
Other waiters will soon get involved;
And it usually ends just the way that it should,
With the cutter gone; problem resolved.

But sometimes a lineholder makes a mistake
And accuses an innocent soul;
In that case accuser should promptly be told,
"Who died and put you in control?"

It's funny to me, that this chutzpah is shared
By line-cutter and phony accuser;
They have personality traits I abhor
And each one, equally, is a loser.

So here's my advice, if you're waiting in line:
Think your thoughts, read a book, close your eyes.
Mind your business and never cut into the line,
And there'll be no unpleasant surprise.

Sunset

Watching the sun as it sinks in the sky
Is quite an incredible thing;
It makes me aware of how tiny we are,
Though to our self-importance we cling.

Perfectly circular, yellow, and huge
It slowly slides into the sea,
Not really conscious or giving a hoot
That it is the sky's V.I.P.

And people line up with their cameras set,
Awestruck and caught in the magic;
And as it descends they forget, for a bit,
All the rest of life - comic or tragic.

There aren't too many diversions like this
That can blot all our worries and cares;
That's the sunset's true power to me, though of course
With a rainbow, it hardly compares...

Quiet

Living in the city, constant noise assaults the senses;
Tuning out or tuning in remain our best defenses.
So unless you plug your ears with I-Pod or CD's,
Prepare to be accosted by the city's jamborees.
Sirens blare from ambulances, fire trucks and cops;
Trucks and buses chug on by and screech when making stops.
Cars and taxis honk their horns despite impending fines;
Toddlers tantrum and we're tortured by incessant whines.
Clothing stores blast music and it's not Bach or Corelli;
Meat is sizzling on the carts and inside every deli.
Subway cars careen into the stations with a rumble;
Even in the library the level's more than mumble.
Garbage trucks and car alarms can rouse you from your bed;
Often they are loud enough to even wake the dead.
Yet some pockets do exist for quiet contemplation;
Finding them is certainly a cause for celebration.
If you cannot find a park or refuge, I've no doubt,
That you can be New Yorkerish and baby, tune it out!

Symbiosis (to Mel)

Plants need water; stamps need glue.
Bricks need mortar; hair: shampoo.
Cars need gas; food needs spices.
Technogeeks need new devices.
Dogs need leashes; letters: stamps.
Folks in wheelchairs need nice ramps.
Zoos need visitors, so do shows.
Igloos wait for Eskimos.
Bands need tubas; singers: mics.
Hiking boots help out on hikes.
Laundry needs detergent; church needs sinners.
Marathons need runners, with some winners.
Teeth need toothpaste; dentists: drills.
Roller coaster riders require thrills.
Tattoo artists must have ink.
Skaters need a skating rink.
Gyms need trainers; schools need teachers.
Stadiums require bleachers.
Beds need pillows; sailboats: sails.
Hammers must desire nails.
Symbiosis sees us through,
Which explains why – I need you!

My Yellow Coat

Someone told me, just today,
I looked just like a daisy.
I was not in costume and
The speaker wasn’t crazy.

I was attired in my coat
That’s bright as a canary;
And when I wear it, it attracts
A constant commentary.

It’s yellow as a taxicab
And takes a day that’s gloomy,
Transforming it to something sweet
And jazzy and perfumy.

My other jacket’s navy blue,
My down-filled one is black;
But wearing them I’m so aware
Of what they really lack:

Pizzazz and dazzle, perk and punch,
A burst of sunny gold;
When I’m wrapped in my yellow coat,
I’m something to behold.

Packing

Leaving for vacation soon -
I really must get cracking.
Though I have all the things I need,
I dread the thought of packing!

Never know just what to take;
Can’t predict the weather.
Clothes are strewn around, but I
Can’t get my act together.

Should I take some long-sleeved shirts?
The weather could be breezy.
While I agonize, my husband
Makes it look so easy.

He was done two days ago,
With not a second thought.
I keep second guessing things -
I am the queen of “ought.”

I ought to take those extra shoes,
Perhaps just one more dress;
My suitcase may not even close,
My closet’s still a mess.

I try on outfits – can’t decide
If I need all this stuff.
I overpack but worry that
I might not have enough.

And then the jewelry debate –
Which earrings will I need?
No matter how I plan I’ll still
Forget some, guaranteed.

Once toiletries are done –
I hope my husband packed sunscreen –
I have to gather newspapers,
Some books and magazines.

The camera? Check! My medicine?
Some makeup, phone and charger;
Anxiety is growing as
My list keeps getting larger.

Yet somehow it will all get done,
No matter how I curse;
And in a week, repeat again,
But only in reverse.

Healthy

So many people that I know
Don’t care ‘bout being wealthy;
They do obsess on one thing, though:
The need to eat what’s healthy.

A bowl of Cheerios each day,
Or oatmeal, bran, and fish
Will keep the bogeyman away;
At least that’s what they wish.

And red yeast rice or fish oil pills
With beta-carotene
Can chase away whatever ills
May try to intervene.

My friends and I will reach a stage –
Our bonds will have to sever;
‘Cause I’ll die at a normal age –
And they will live forever!

Expectations

“You’re capable of so much more,”
Is something often said.
Though it might mean a compliment,
It’s oft received with dread.

For it implies that you are not
Producing all you could.
If you’d put some more effort in
You would be more than good.

You might be great or wonderful,
Perhaps inspire awe;
Imagine all the accolades,
The crowds that you could draw.

But now, alas, you’re just okay.
Of course, we still feel proud;
But just try harder, and I’m sure
The world would just be wowed!

Heroes

Shocking news ‘bout Tiger Woods,
Now a fallen hero.
Role models sure drop like flies;
We’ll soon be down to zero.

One by one they do succumb
To various temptations;
Sex or steroids, cash or fame
Can spoil their reputations.

Everyone can possibly
Become a lowlife cheater,
But I won’t lose faith until
I hear it’s Derek Jeter.

Humbug

Thanksgiving’s over, ‘tis the season;
Jolly doesn’t cut it.
If you’re joyful, for each reason
I will so rebut it.

Hate the crowds in every store,
Despise required gifts;
Christmas music I abhor –
My spirit never lifts.

Catalogues attack in droves;
E-mails keep repeating.
Baked goods reek of mace and cloves;
Stores’ decors competing.

Ho Ho Ho’s get on my nerves;
Elves are not appealing.
Often one thinks he deserves
More than his gift’s revealing.

TV specials clog the air:
“A Wonderful Life” again?
Announce these feelings if you dare
And see what happens then.

Folks will furtively agree,
But with an asterisk.
If you push them, guarantee
You’re taking quite a risk.

For even though most do complain:
“There’s so much left to do!”
They overwhelmingly retain
That Santa point of view.

It’s hard to argue with a trend;
We’ve learned Scrooge is a villain.
I’m sure that some I will offend
With this humbug I’m spillin’.

Yet others might concur, I hope;
If so, please stand and shout it.
We’ve just a month left – can we cope?
At times, I really doubt it.

But never fear, the days will fly;
The madness will be stopping.
We’ll have a year to fortify
Before next Christmas shopping.

Mess

I used to have a fantasy
That when my kids were grown,
My home would be immaculate –
A neat, unsullied zone.

It’d look just like a magazine,
Each object in its place;
If someone dropped by there would be
No panic on my face.

I’d open up the door and oh,
With pride my heart would flutter;
As I’d invite the person in,
There’d be no hint of clutter.

Yet things have not worked out that way,
Despite my strong desire;
I look around, surprised to see
The piles are even higher.

My husband’s gym stuff on a chair,
The mail stacked on the table;
The clothes I’ve worn but not yet washed –
I’ll get to when I’m able.

The newspapers and magazines
In baskets overflowing;
And everywhere I look, I see
That mounds of things are growing.

I guess it’s part of DNA;
You’d know with just a swab,
That either you’re a neat freak
Or the opposite, a slob.

But when I have some company,
(Don’t tell what I’m confiding!)
They’ll marvel at the place –
The clutter’s in the closet, hiding.

All That Glitters

Most women, not all, but a large enough group,
Are alike in that each one is born
With a seed that will grow, with a nurturing hand,
To a penchant and need to adorn.

On birthdays, engagements, and other such times
The gift de rigueur still remains
An item of jewelry, proffered to prove
All the love that the giver sustains.

Whether silver or gold or with sparkling gems,
Most expensive or costing a sou,
A necklace or ring or a bracelet imparts
Permanence, like an inkless tattoo.

Of course, females don’t have to just wait for a gift;
Most often they’re out on the prowl,
And at craft fairs or counters where jewelry’s displayed,
They’re assessing, with smile or with scowl.

Oh, these earrings, so dangly, sure perk up my mood,
Or this watch does much more than tell time;
And this choker’s so special I can’t walk away –
Why, it even inspired this rhyme!

So we hunt and we look and debate on the price,
And we preen at the mirror’s reflection,
Wondering if this particular piece
Will enhance our expanding collection.

Do we need it? Of course not, that isn’t the point,
Though our reasons may seem like a mystery.
The ancient Egyptians had jewels galore;
The precedent’s right there in history.

And thus we continue to search and explore;
There’s such beautiful stuff to consider.
If we can afford it, there’s reason to add
One more item to make ourselves glitter.

Black Friday

Shop ‘til you drop – today’s Black Friday!
Hurry and run – it’s do or die day.
Thousands of purchasers will stampede
To buy things their families do not need.
Bargains abound – the prices slashed;
Shoppers attack – merchandise gets trashed.
Sales signs are plastered in every store:
Open at dawn – we have stuff galore.
This year security will be ample;
Hopefully nobody will get trampled.
Throngs of consumers, all shapes and sizes,
Will boast of their savings, their discount prizes.
I marvel at all of this, and concede
That I feel a little like Margaret Mead.
Watching the hordes do their tribal dance
I wonder if this represents “advance.”
Good luck if you’re part of this strange syndrome –
I may miss the bargains, but I’ll stay home.

Thanksgiving

Years ago on Turkey Day
My father, in a snit,
Let traffic get the best of him,
Announcing, “This is it!”

He turned the car ‘round in a huff;
My mom’s pleas were rejected.
My aunt had planned a massive feast
At which we were expected.

To soothe our wounds my dad declared,
“We’ll go out for Chinese!”
Our sullen silence shouted “No!”
To lobster Cantonese.

Yet there we were Thanksgiving Day
With shrimp in lobster sauce,
My father trying to pretend
He showed us who was boss.

But though he tried to cheer us up
We were a gloomy group;
We dreamed of sweet potato pie
While slurping wonton soup.

I often think back to that day –
Though we were so downcast,
We were together, and who knew
That magic wouldn’t last?

My parents are long gone
Yet every year in late November,
That Thanksgiving eating Chinese food’s
The one that I remember.

Where We Belong

On holidays people travel home
Where memory prevails;
On automatic pilot,
They’re like magnet-grabbing nails.

Expecting they can recreate
That childhood sense of wonder;
But once we’re grown that innocence
Is likely torn asunder.

It cannot be the way it was
‘Cause we ourselves have changed.
We’re like some lumps of clay
That life has somehow rearranged.

We’ve journeyed through some ups and downs
And sometimes gotten battered;
Yet still, despite our bruises
We did not forget what mattered.

And so, we hearken to the sound
And heed that sirens’ song,
And follow it to be again
At home, where we belong.

Talent

Is talent something we all have
Or is it more exclusive?
Sometimes gifts are obvious,
At other times, elusive.

Having an artistic bent,
To paint or draw or sketch,
Is something that I don’t possess,
Not by the longest stretch.

Many folks play instruments
And others can compose;
My musical ability
Has fewer highs than lows.

In beading class I watch
As others finish each design;
I struggle and I note that theirs
All look great next to mine.

In quilting, too, I marvel at
Each quilter’s magic flair,
And though I’m proud of what I’ve done,
My work can’t quite compare.

Some people take fine pictures
Or have cool computer skills;
Athletes run or skate or ski,
Avoiding clumsy spills.

Chefs in restaurants or homes
Have culinary knacks;
Businessmen and fundraisers
Have honorary plaques.

Many people are adroit
At nurturing or teaching;
Others leave us spellbound
With performing or with preaching.

Maybe others can’t detect
What talents we have hidden.
Doubting all your aptitude
Should strictly be forbidden.

Dig inside yourself – discover
Some untapped forte;
Nurture it and someday
You can put it on display.

It may take years and years until
You gather up your nerve,
But take the stage and soak up
The applause that you deserve.

Control

Some things are really beyond your control:
Maybe your car hasn’t started,
Subway’s delayed, your alarm didn’t ring;
Excuses can sound so half-hearted.

The doctor’s appointment was for the wrong date;
The nurse gave you misinformation.
The office was closed, you got voice mail instead;
You’re stressing out from the frustration.

The gift that you ordered was not there in time;
The bank didn’t get your deposit.
The cleaners misplaced what you wanted to wear,
Or else it got lost in your closet.

The traffic delayed you, the rain didn’t help;
The taxis were nowhere in sight.
You jostle a stranger who’s laden with bags –
She whirls around primed for a fight.

No matter how much you like being in charge
Or like to be holding the reins,
It’s not guaranteed that you’ll come out ahead:
Your losses may cancel your gains.

So when circumstances usurp your command,
Just calm yourself with a deep breath;
Then jump in the saddle and brandish the whip –
You’ll relinquish the reins after death.

Knit (dedicated to Aunt Sydelle)

A sweater that’s knit
By the hand of a friend
Or a grandma or aunt
Will most surely transcend
Any similar one
You can buy in a store,
‘Cause it’s knitted with love
By someone you adore.

So when you slip it on
And are snuggled inside,
Appreciate all
The emotion implied
By each stitch that contains,
Like a mystery’s clue,
A message of love
Just intended for you.

You can pay through the nose
For designer’s couture,
But a hand-knitted gift
Is worth oh, so much more!

Freak Flag

In the 60’s you could tell
Preppy kid from hippie:
Khakis, loafers, button-downs
Versus outfits trippy:

Low-slung dungarees with hems
Belled and frayed or shredded;
Tie-dyed shirts to let folks know
To Yasgur’s farm we headed.

Free-form hair, bandana bound,
Our message loud and clear:
We defy convention,
Breathe in our own atmosphere.

As David Crosby used to sing,
We let our freak flags fly.
If some small spark of freak still lives,
It’s not hard to espy.

Check out those funky earrings or
Those multicolored socks;
That retro pair of glasses:
Coloring outside the box.

A beaded vest, a kicky hat,
Some boots of soft brown leather;
A slouchy bag, a fringy belt,
A necklace twined with feather.

If you look carefully, you’ll see
(You cannot really hide)
That former freak flag fliers
In old bodies do reside.

So if you spot a fellow freak
In restaurant, mall, or movie,
Just nod in recognition and
Be happy you’re still groovy.

Stuffed

Didja ever go out to a restaurant
And eat more than you should?
If so, you know just how I feel:
Stuffed, and not too good.

Could not resist the nachos,
Ate more than twice my share;
The margarita went down smooth –
I didn’t even care.

The quesadilla melted
Like queso in the sun.
I gobbled it and with each bite,
I’d only just begun.

Fajitas followed quickly;
They sizzled and they sputtered.
The meat wrapped in tortillas –
My stomach getting cluttered.

The meal was sadly finished,
But not, alas, complete;
For when I got home I did crave
A taste of something sweet.

So even though I barely
Could sustain another bite,
I scarfed a mini-Almond Joy,
A Halloween delight.

And now I pay the piper:
My jeans I must unzip;
But now that I am comfortable,
Please pass me one last chip!

Reminiscing

Getting older, one starts missing
Pieces of the past.
Soon it’s time for reminiscing;
Some things didn’t last.

Thinking back to favorite haunts
May bring a sudden smile.
Memory teases and it flaunts;
It sucks you in with guile.

Everything was easier,
We think, when we were young;
Sunnier and breezier,
No worried hands were wrung.

All our friendships flowed along:
No squabbles, fights or tears.
No one did another wrong:
Such perfect mouseketeers!

Remembering the better times
Is fun, like taking stock;
But sometimes hidden negatives
Are there for brains to block.

Those feelings hurt, that nasty scar
We cannot quite recall;
They’re buried in the reservoir
Of childhood’s crystal ball.

But maybe we are better off
With hindsight’s glasses rosy;
After all, who’d ever scoff
At scenes so warm and cozy?

And so we reminisce and sigh
As memory portrays
The golden view of time gone by:
Those were the good old days.

High Heels

Ask a woman how she feels
When she’s struttin’ in high heels.
She may answer, “I feel power!
Obstacles I’ll just devour.”

Or she might say, “The effect
That sexy shoes helps me project
Is worth the damage to my feet;
They help to make me feel complete.”

Perhaps she just enjoys the glances,
Loves the way the heel enhances
Curvy legs with muscles taut;
Such allure cannot be bought.

As a child, I’d oft parade
Throughout the house, in my charade
Of glamour queen in my mom’s heels;
The memory’s real, but it reveals

That something didn’t turn out right.
Perhaps I couldn’t take the height,
Or else I couldn’t act the flirt;
My female wiles did not assert.

‘Cause somehow, though I grew up fine,
High heels were not in the design.
I didn’t learn to strut my stuff;
Plain walking suited me enough.

But never mind, whate’er the cause,
I guess it’s there among my flaws;
My heel aversion, I profess,
Does not deserve this full-court press.

I mention it because I muse –
Is this an option I did choose?
Was I just born with this ingrained,
Or were my high heel dreams restrained?

Whichever reasons you assign
To understand this quirk of mine,
Don’t try to change me – no chitchats;
I’m very happy wearing flats!

"Courtesy is Contagious"

If you ever ride the train,
You will have heard this weird refrain:
“When a pregnant person rides,
Please give your seat up, and besides
You’ll be doing your fair share;
Good manners will be everywhere.”
Those words are not exact, of course,
But close enough to their true source,
Which says, “Courtesy is contagious.”
What a message! How outrageous!
Will a public service plea
Change someone, even one degree?
“Gee, that person’s ‘bout to pop –
I’ll let her sit at the next stop!”
And why use “person?” Guarantee,
A pregnant woman’s not P.C.!
Equality must be addressed;
Genetics doesn’t pass the test.
Yet often, in a subway car,
I witness things that seem bizarre;
And one of these that does astound
Is seeing men, some muscle-bound,
In seats, while standing in the aisle,
A pregnant person’s round profile
Juts into the surrounding space:
Chivalry’s lost its embrace.
And oh, to public service guy:
Your message makes no one comply.
It just gives me a headache, so,
Let life retain its status quo.

Exercise

A recent study seemed to prove
That city folks are thinner
Than their suburban counterparts,
But don’t make food the sinner.

It’s lack of exercise to blame:
In cities, people walk.
If someone strolls down country lanes,
It would be cause to gawk.

But doesn’t matter where you live,
A gym exists – so try it!
You’ll see improvement quicker than
If you couch-surf and diet.

For exercise makes you alive;
You’ll feel like a spring chicken.
Your blood pumps from your heart to head;
The endorphins are kickin’.

Just walk or jog or take a class,
Or work on a machine;
Perhaps a swim will float your boat,
Or try a trampoline.

Instead of getting in your car
Or in an elevator,
Ride your bicycle or hike:
Become a health crusader.

Excuses will flow easily,
But they should be deflected;
Once exercise is in your blood,
Bad habits are neglected.

Pretty soon, I guarantee
Your exercise routine
Will be a part of who you are,
While saving gasoline.

So take a stand and make a start:
If not, you’ll really rue it.
Your life’s potential’s in your grasp;
It’s up to you – so do it!

Dessert

When I was growing up
We finished every evening meal
With something sweet and sugary –
That was its big appeal.

It might be something simple –
Bartlett pears straight from the can,
With Cool Whip as a topping;
I admit I was a fan.

Sometimes it was fruit cocktail,
With its most misleading name;
For every fruit it featured
Tasted blandly just the same.

Or else we had canned peaches
In a syrup, thick and sweet;
And if my mom had ample time,
Then pudding was our treat.

Of course we ate some Jello;
Its bright colors so attracted;
But learning of its horse hooves,
From our choice it was subtracted.

Now here I am years later
And, I must admit the truth,
That after dinner I must
Satisfy that still-sweet tooth.

Canned fruit will just not cut it,
No, it’s chocolate that I crave:
A bittersweet bonanza
Is a habit I won’t waive.

Some nights it could be ice cream,
Mushed around to make it creamy,
And topped with coconut or crumbled cake
To make it dreamy.

At times some licorice will do
Or fruit pie, a la mode;
My mother didn’t realize
She programmed that sugar lode.

I do not judge her for it;
Criticism I’ll divert.
Refrain from joining me, but
Don’t begrudge me my dessert.

The Museum

Being in the museum with friends,
Admiring all kinds of art,
Fills me with happiness hard to describe;
I wouldn’t quite know where to start.

Of course the Picassos still had their allure,
The Monets alone made quite a show;
Cezanne and Vermeer drew a sizable crowd,
And we felt simply awed by Van Gogh.

Since our friends traveled far we tried ever so hard
To see what else there was to discover,
So we visited mummies and armor and still
There were many things left to uncover.

The New Guinean wing was exotic and strange;
We examined each carving and mask.
And the gift shop enticed us with its bright array –
Was a purchase made? Why even ask?

This was followed by lunch and much more to explore,
But contentedness really transcends
All the art and the food and the touristy spots:
‘Cause the best part was being with friends.

Yes, I loved all the artifacts, paintings, and such;
I really devoured the art.
Yet the wonder and magic would not be the same
Without friends who are close to the heart.

Upload

I don’t do Twitter, cannot tweet,
Won’t message with a text;
Technology gives me cold feet
And leaves me most perplexed.

My cell phone’s very basic
And its camera is a mystery.
My eyes have not had Lasik
And my radio’s transistory.

I do not understand “Apps,”
Haven’t accessed DVR;
Instead of GPS, maps
Help me when I’m in the car.

I’ve yet to own an I-Pod,
Do not have Caller ID;
My online skills are slipshod –
I’m a techie refugee.

Yet somehow I decided
To create a book online.
My first attempt: misguided,
But the errors were benign.

I had to learn to upload
From our documented files,
Vacation photos, once stowed
In some neat computer piles.

I began the operation,
Suffering through trial and error;
My crescendoing frustration
Would cause some to flee in terror.

But my husband helped me through it
With his patience and his calm;
I did not think I could do it,
Certainly not with aplomb.

Now my book is almost finished,
Not quite done – completion pending;
Still my message’s not diminished:
There could be a happy ending.

What I’ve learned is, though remaining
Quite a pre-tech advocate,
Some uploading, with complaining,
May be perfectly legit.

Thugly

A horde of kids squeezed onto
A crowded subway train;
Jostling, laughing, screaming:
Decorum down the drain.

I wasn’t feeling threatened;
They didn’t push or glare.
In fact, they acted like
Nobody else was even there.

They yelled out to each other
Using every single curse;
My friend and I had difficulty
Trying to converse.

Some passengers were bothered,
The language was so jarring;
It felt like a rap video
In which they all were starring.

I wish I could have told them
Without being a haranguesta,
Their attitude demeaned them,
Like they played at being gangsta.

But no one in the car
Would ever dare to interfere,
And I knew better than to be
The first to volunteer.

There’s no way to inform them,
Saying honestly, not smugly,
That others view the way they act
As what I’m calling thugly.

But even if they got it
Without feeling out of joint,
I think they’d answer, simply,
“Lady – you just missed the point!”

Reflection

Some days I check the mirror
And think I’m looking good,
But other times I cringe and know
I don’t look like I should.

It could just be the haircut,
Or maybe lack of sleep;
Stress does surely take its toll,
And aging wrinkles creep.

But often there’s no reason,
A mystery with no clue.
I just think I look awful;
There’s nothing I can do.

Even if I try to dress
In something new and snazzy,
Or wear funky earrings
To make me feel cool and jazzy,

Usually it’s useless;
Not a single thing will work.
Some impish nasty spirit
Has invaded, with a smirk.

I’m sure that other people
May experience the same.
I don’t think my neurosis
Is entirely to blame.

Yet beauty on the surface
May unpleasantness conceal.
What we feel inside
Affects the face that we reveal.

So if you check the mirror
And all is not okay,
Suck it up and smile
And go out to face the day.

Confrontation

If you see someone doing something
That he shouldn’t do,
When’s the time to take a stand
And when is it taboo?

If you spy someone stealing,
Being rude or impolite,
When do you keep quiet?
When’s the time to pick a fight?

How ‘bout being privy to
A nasty verbal lashing?
Should you mind your business
Or step in and take a thrashing?

Witnessing infractions puts us
In a moral bind.
Once we’ve seen indecency,
It’s too late to rewind.

Then a quandary sucks us in,
And what is the decision?
Challenging those in the wrong
And risking their derision?

Or should we keep it all inside,
Pretend we didn’t see?
Let the perpetrator
Brandish impropriety?

Such dilemmas usually
Are silent and internal;
No one will the wiser be
If we choose the infernal.

We must live within ourselves
And though we may abhor
Surrendering a battle,
It may help us win the war.

Although it may be tempting
To jump in and quell the riot,
Sometimes the best action
Is to back off and be quiet.

Many Ways

There’s only one way in this world
For us to first appear;
There’s just one possibility
To get from naught to here.

Yet exiting’s a different thing:
So many ways of leaving;
And usually we have no choice
To be the cause of grieving.

We could get rammed while in a car,
Or crushed under a bus;
Or perish silently in bed
Without ado or fuss.

We might succumb to cancer,
Not survive a heart attack;
Perhaps while hunting with a friend,
We’ll get shot in the back.

An operation may go wrong;
Infection escalate.
A strange disease could sidle in;
A bomb could detonate.

Some folks drown or fall head-first
From roofs or down the stairs;
Others get attacked by dogs
Or mauled by grizzly bears.

Drugs can cause an overdose,
And lightning sometimes strikes.
Avalanches just might bury
Hikers taking hikes.

Bridges may collapse and fires
Can lick us with their heat;
Sometimes people get plowed down
While walking ‘cross the street.

Bullets penetrate and kill
And so do knives and stones;
But no matter how we go,
We’re all reduced to bones.

Still we plod along each day
Without really knowing
When and in what manner
We’ll eventually be going.

So we put it out of mind
As we take our next breath;
It’s easier to live our life
Than think about our death.

Parade

Our World Series heroes need
To hear a constant accolade,
But even more, they have to have
A New York ticker tape parade.

Watching it on my TV,
(Should have gone, but hate the crowd)
It was awesome seeing fans
Standing patiently and proud.

In the limo, leading off,
Yogi waved, absorbing cheers;
Politicians claimed their spots
As a perk of their careers.

Bloomberg, Paterson, and Koch,
Giuliani, too, of course;
Joe Girardi rode with Mike,
A few days too late to endorse.

Michael Kay rode by himself,
Followed by some AM voices:
John Sterling and Susan,
The announcers who would be my choices.

In the floats, a thrill to see
Johnny Damon and Teixeira;
Hope they stick around to have
Careers like that of Yogi Berra.

Here is A-Rod with Jay-Z,
Swisher, C.C. and Burnett;
Even Reggie Jackson came:
He remains a hero yet.

Matsui and Cano float by,
Melky, Jorge and Marte,
But the crowd goes really nuts
When Derek Jeter’s on display.

Down the canyon, now I see
Joba C. and Andy Pettitte;
Mariano, without whom
The Yankees might as well forget it.

As the floats reach City Hall,
The time has come for me to end.
I hope I am forgiven by
Those I’ve omitted as I penned.

Our Yankee heroes do deserve
This joyous upbeat atmosphere;
We’ll soak it up to last us ‘til
We celebrate again next year.

Victory

Here it is, we’ve all be waiting;
Now’s the time for celebrating!
Winning’s sweet, but even sweeter
Is to win with Derek Jeter.
Phillies simply didn’t get it
When confronted by a Pettitte,
Or a C.C. or Marte;
And Mariano? Hell, no way!
Sometimes umpires’ calls were screwy,
But we countered with Matsui.
Every player really hustled;
Melk and Johnny pulled some muscle.
Alex came through in the clutch;
Phillies didn’t like that much.
Mark Teixeira and Posada
Fielded smoothly, missing nada.
Gardner, Swisher and Cano
Helped to deal the fatal blow.
Pitchers Joba, Coke and Hughes
Joined to make the Phillies lose.
Robertson, A.J. Burnett
Pitched as good as it can get.
Hairston, Jr. did his part,
Even though he didn’t start.
Molina, Hinske, Aceves, too
All did what they had to do.
And of course, there’d be no party
Without brilliant Joe Girardi.
Every single Yankee fan,
Here at home or in Japan,
Feels today like we’re in heaven –
Wow! It’s really twenty-seven!

Space

Living in the city
Means that space is tight.
Many folks who need more room
Have simply taken flight.

But if you’ve stayed, you’ve managed
To organize and shift
So every item has its place;
No person has short shrift.

With built-ins, shelves and bunk beds,
You’ve learned to make it work;
Though friends of yours from out-of-town
Might think that you’re berserk.

Yet it’s okay to covet
A little extra room.
It’s normal and appropriate
And healthy, I assume.

Unless you’re fairly wealthy,
Or luckier than most,
You suffer from cramped-itis,
So simply diagnosed.

You’d love a walk-in closet,
Would die for half a bath;
Nine hundred square feet has no wiggle room –
Just do the math.

Most days I hardly notice.
In fact, I’m quite content.
I can’t complain, I’ve sacrificed
To pay a meager rent.

But once in a great while,
I think of my decision;
Staying in the city many view
With true derision.

I do not have a garden,
Or back yard for a grill,
But Central Park does beckon
And fortifies me still.

There’s magic out my window:
Life’s bustling and rosy;
Yet here inside my city space,
I’m comfortable and cozy.

World Series

Mummies and skeletons don’t alarm me.
I don’t think vampires mean to harm me.
Spiders and waterbugs I can stomp.
I’m not afraid of an ogre’s chomp.
Monsters and aliens may exist;
I think I’m something they would resist.
Only one thing gives me the willies:
Cliff Lee, the pitching ace of the Phillies.

Cooler than cool’s how he appears;
Doesn’t acknowledge applause or jeers.
Working with quicker than lightning speed,
If he had some clones we could just concede;
For every last Yankee he did dispatch –
And how ‘bout that reach-behind-grabbing catch?
His pitching is pure, like a work of art;
His presence strikes fear in each Yankee heart.

But now that I’ve said this, I must admit
I haven’t lost hope, not one single bit,
For we’ll be at home now to play game six,
And others will pitch without Cliff Lee’s tricks.
He’ll sit in the dugout, where he will watch,
Helpless to chalk up another notch.
Now I can breathe easy and cheer and yell,
Since the Yankees won’t be under Cliff Lee’s spell.

So Phillies, prepare: Yankees will be crowned
‘Cause our own Mariano will take the mound!

Mah Jongg

When I was growing up
One night a week was set aside;
If mom was needed, well – too bad!
She was preoccupied.

She left for someone’s house or else
To our home her friends came;
The purpose was the females-only
Holy mah jongg game.

A bridge table was set for four,
Refreshments were prepared;
And if an atom bomb dropped
No one would have even cared.

The ivory tiles were stacked in rows,
The mah jongg cards consulted,
And lots of kibitzing ensued;
Hilarity resulted.

I’d listen from a nearby room
When my mom was the host.
The clack of tiles and laughter
Is what I remember most.

I’d sometimes steal a perfect piece
Of pineapple with cherry,
Or grab a bridge-mix handful
From the nosh itinerary.

But mostly I ignored them,
Said hello and grabbed my snacks;
I knew I’d never spend my time
With bams and dots and craks.

Yet years have passed and who’d have guessed
That I, with several others,
Play mah jongg in our living rooms,
Exactly like our mothers.

We build our walls and share our food,
And sing each other’s praises;
The circle has been made complete,
And that is what amazes.

We never think, when we are young,
Our parents’ lives expressed
So many things that we’d someday
Be happy we possessed.

The beauty of that knowledge
Is despite life’s barbs and knots,
We can schmooze with friends just like our moms,
With bams and craks and dots.

Marathon

I’ve never run a marathon
And know I never will,
Yet watching all the runners run,
I get my yearly thrill.

To say they are amazing, well,
It doesn’t really nail it.
The mountain’s twenty-six miles high
And damn, they mean to scale it!

The leaders, or elite, they’re called,
Have bodies made of granite;
Their sculpted muscles represent
Perfection for this planet.

To see them running by so fleet,
With their gazelle-like strides,
Makes me wonder where inside
Their stamina resides.

And more remarkable to me
Are those not so elite:
The ordinary yet determined
Amateur athlete.

I saw a lot of them today
In pain at eighteen miles,
Cramping up and slowing down
And often lacking smiles.

Yet most of them will make it through,
Although it may take hours;
They all deserve to know how much
Their attitude empowers.

So here’s to marathoners all,
No matter when you finish;
My admiration grows each year,
And never will diminish.

Although you chose this challenge
Each for reasons that you needed,
The inspiration you provide
Means that you have succeeded.

Halloween

Walking down the street I saw
Both bumblebee and fairy,
Vampires, witches, and some monsters
Scarier than scary.

A gladiator strolled beside
Some high-heeled sexy nurses,
And several aliens who came
From distant universes.

A firefighter and his friends,
All hero-types in tights,
Escorted princesses and queens,
And several elves and sprites.

Such simple costume magic
Formed this Halloween display,
To lift us from the daily grind
And keep the drab at bay.

Reality’s suspended,
And we cross into the realm
Of wonder and enchantment,
With a dreamer at the helm.

So dive into this haven’s
Pure ethereal delight;
To fantasy, surrender,
If only for one night.

Spit

Why do baseball players spit?
It really seems quite gross.
Is it required, like a mitt?
A trainer’s daily dose?

And what exactly do they chew,
Like cud that’s mashed by cows?
Tobacco should be quite taboo,
Against their baseball vows.

Perhaps it’s seeds or sunflower shells
They load up in their cheeks,
And practice so each spurt propels –
Perfecting their technique.

It might serve as a tonic,
To help calm a case of jitters;
But it just looks moronic –
Seeing high-paid low-life spitters!

Didn’t each one have a mom
To stop that nasty habit?
Mothers watch them with a qualm –
They still do that? Dagnabbit!

Now at last I understand
Why baseball won’t permit
Women to join in the band:
Because they wouldn’t spit!

Royal Flush

I’ll never really understand
Why some things were invented;
Perhaps the explanation’s
The inventor was demented.

Of all the wacky things out there
That someone wasted time on,
Is something too ridiculous
To’ve even spent a dime on.

Its simple sheer absurdity
Should make its maker blush;
Of course what I refer to is
The automatic flush.

Who decided flushing toilets
Seemed like too much work?
Or did someone notice this was
Something people shirk?

Surely even kings and princes
Push that little handle;
Yet some inventor thought, like Edison,
He’d best the candle.

It serves no purpose; actually
It adds to water waste;
‘Cause often it repeats itself
When awkwardly, we’re braced.

So then we’re splashed and splattered
And, no matter how we rush,
We’re helpless, at the mercy of
That stupid royal flush.

I like modern conveniences -
Most help us, there’s no doubt;
But automatic toilets
I can surely do without!

Flu Shot

I just got my flu shot –
It’s kinda hard to find it.
It hurt my arm a little;
I guess I shouldn’t mind it.

I took a random survey,
Asked many folks I know
If they’d gotten injected,
Or chosen to forego.

Results were fifty-fifty:
Some simply just refused.
A few might be allergic,
Or seemed to be confused.

But of the ones who took it,
Considered it their due,
Were many who had suffered once
With that unwelcome flu.

Descriptions of its symptoms:
The fever, pains, and aches
Convinced me that to get the shot
Would not be a mistake.

So now I am protected,
As far as I can tell,
But H1N1 threatens -
Should I get that shot as well?

We need a Magic 8 ball;
Who knows what lies in wait?
I think I’ll stop at one vaccine,
And leave the rest to fate.

Umbrellas

My very first umbrella
Was in gold and had my name;
When other ‘brellas passed me by,
Mine put them all to shame.

Though underneath its sturdy spokes
I felt both warm and dry,
That wasn’t why I got such smiles
From every passerby.

It was its honey color
And my name in curvy script;
It also had a ruffled edge
From whence the raindrops dripped.

So many years have passed
With new umbrellas in the rack,
Yet to this day I’ve never ever
Owned one that is black.

Umbrellas charcoal black are what
Most everybody has,
But every rainy day deserves
Both color and pizzazz.

Some people understand this and
Flaunt hues so bright and bold,
Or patterns or designs, to put
A gloomy day on hold.

My current favorite’s filled with hearts
In colors rich and deep;
And when in Ireland I bought
A snappy one with sheep.

No matter what umbrella
You may carry in the rain,
You have the opportunity
To cheer up the terrain.

Do not choose black, because
To old ideas you will be clingin’ –
Unless you’re like Gene Kelly,
And you plan to do some singin’!

Falling Behind

I’m weeks behind in The New York Times;
My friends all like to tease me.
Most people just don’t understand,
And don’t try to appease me.

I thought when I no longer worked,
I’d finally be on track;
But so much juts into my day,
The Times just gets pushed back.

There’s a novel to read and some emails to check,
And my morning-time exercise;
There are classes to take, get-togethers with friends,
Observations to analyze.

There are magazines, also – I should unsubscribe –
The New Yorker alone takes me hours!
And museum tours I sometimes lead – goodness knows,
There’s no time left to smell any flowers.

And I do watch TV, not a lot, but enough
To cut even more into my time;
And now that my blog is reality, well,
I must make room to work on my rhyme.

So I read the old news, but it’s still news to me,
And I tackle the puzzles in order;
But I know that I’ll only be really caught up
If they make The Times quite a bit shorter!

Stuff

Why can’t I just get rid of
Half the stuff I’ve come to own?
If you peeked into my closet,
Well, you couldn’t help but groan.

I can’t fit one more hanger,
Even if I hoped and wished;
And so I iron every day,
‘Cause everything is squished.

My drawers are also cluttered;
They can barely slide and shut.
Of t-shirts, sweaters, tanks and such,
I surely have a glut.

The irony, of course, is that
Most things I do not wear.
They’re old or do not flatter,
Yet, discard them? I don’t dare!

I don’t know why I cling to them,
But I just can’t let go;
And since I do buy new things, too,
There’s constant overflow.

Perhaps I need a guru
Who can dabble in hypnosis,
Since living with this stuff
Is now resembling psychosis.

But meanwhile I cannot resist
A visit to a store,
‘Cause I know there is always room
To squeeze in one thing more.

Support

You cannot build a house without
A solid strong foundation.
A sentence would be incomplete
Without some punctuation.

A boat requires an anchor or
It might just drift downstream;
And engines need some water to
Provide that blast of steam.

A novel has to have a plot,
A judge must have a court;
And each of us cannot get by
If we have no support.

It could be friends or relatives,
A rabbi or a priest.
Perhaps it’s someone from the past,
Quite possibly deceased.

It matters not if our support
Would pass a close inspection,
As long as we internalize
That basic pure connection.

When I feel low or insecure
And need those vibes reduced,
I know whom I can count on
To provide that vital boost.

And when important things occur
And celebration’s key,
It isn’t hard to figure out
Who will be there for me.

So thanks to those who’re by my side,
In person or in thought;
I hope you know my heart is filled
With all the love you’ve brought.

I won’t name names, but I believe
This message I’m conveying
Will get to you and so you know,
I plan to be repaying.

Wired

Yankees couldn’t finish
What they started out to do;
This time they have another chance
To fix this last snafu.

If only life were always thus,
And we could try again
To be the winner every time,
No matter where or when.

How lucky that would be, but still
At least we should give thanks;
Our hope can live another day,
And so I say – Go Yanks!

Tired

Today I’m much too tired
To write a simple poem.
My eyelids started closing
On the subway, going home.

I’m such a morning person that
When I stay up too late,
My brain and body just rebel;
I don’t exaggerate.

I could capitulate, I guess,
Like others that I know,
And catch some z’s when pulled into
That P.M. undertow.

But napping’s really not my thing,
So my routines I’ll keep;
Although once I am on the couch,
I know I’ll fall asleep.

I’ll probably miss the playoff’s end,
Or parts of my new shows;
It seems inconsequential
But it isn’t, heaven knows,

‘Cause it’s proof I’m getting older,
Falling in that aging trap;
Still I’ll suffer with exhaustion,
But I will not take a nap!

Errors

Everybody makes mistakes,
Even Derek Jeter.
Knowing that, your next home run
Will be all that much sweeter.

Maybe you’ve said something mean,
Reserved the wrong hotel;
No one’s perfect all the time,
As far as I can tell.

Perhaps you’ve lost your credit card,
Forgot a special date;
Just apologize and then,
Let self-hatred abate.

It doesn’t pay to beat yourself
For bobbling a ball.
Accept it – then just let it go;
Don’t make it your downfall.

Remember, every one of us
Must mess up now and then.
Enjoy the times you get it right,
‘Cause you’ll screw up again!

Pledge

I was walking by the river
For my morning exercise,
When a group of bright-clad runners
Jogged on by, a real surprise.

In blazing orange sweatsuits,
With each name upon each back,
They were serious and sweaty;
Not a single one did slack.

Their shaved heads made them newbies,
I thought as they zipped by,
And emblazoned on their chests
Were letters bright: FDNY.

But the one thing that amazed me –
It brought me to the edge –
Was in front of Gracie Mansion’s flag
They stopped and said the pledge.

It’s done in classrooms every day,
But this fine training corps
Somehow made it seem to me
Like it meant so much more.

It’s unexpected treats like these
That make a dull day bright.
Such magic New York sightings
Never cease to bring delight!

Urban Mom

Baby drops his bottle;
Nipple hits the ground.
Mama picks it up and then,
With sacrifice profound,

She pops it in her mouth
To cleanse it of its city germs,
Never thinking that it touched
A conduit of worms,

Or mice or rats or roaches
Or shoes with gum encrusted,
Spit or doggie detritus
Or pollen, airbrush dusted.

What a brave soul is that mom!
I hope I didn’t spoil it,
‘Cause if she thought it through
She’d take that nipple home and boil it!

To Quench: A Sonnet

When life does parch one’s throat and soul,
And every thought’s consumed with thirst,
The overwhelming, frantic goal
Is just to quench it – or you’ll burst.

Though some may reach for water’s ease,
And others seek a soda sip,
I scoff at those iced tea will please
Or those in juice or cider’s grip.

As for those spirit lovers – fine!
I’ll grant to you my deep respect.
You’ll get some help from scotch or wine
Or gin or vodka, I expect.

But as for me, it’s crystal clear:
Life’s only bearable with beer!

Take Note

We all want recognition
For accomplishments we make.
They’re often unacknowledged,
Unlike any small mistake.

It doesn’t matter what your age,
When you do something great,
You want a smile, a nod or pat,
Some sign to validate.

A toddler hopes you’ll lift him up
Or clap with sheer delight;
An older child might like a hug,
Though will not ask outright.

A friend or spouse or sibling
Hopes you’ll notice her new feat;
It doesn’t matter what it is,
The recognition’s sweet.

It could be a promotion,
Brand-new shoes, a fresh-baked pie,
But all we need’s one compliment
And that may gratify.

So pay attention, find good stuff,
Begin that dialogue;
And oh, a comment would suffice
If you peruse my blog!

Overheard on Cellphone

Sitting on the crosstown bus,
I couldn’t help but hear
A cellphone conversation,
Announcing loud and clear:

“Yes, I went to the doctor.
He said it’s an infection.
He was surprised I went to work;
My throat failed his inspection.

My glands were swollen and he said
My mucous membranes glistened!”
I didn’t try to eavesdrop, but
I wish I hadn’t listened.

I thought of her bacteria
Free-floating in the air.
She was oblivious or else
She really didn’t care.

I hope those germs remained with her,
‘Cause I can guarantee
I will be pissed beyond compare
If they transferred to me!

Crossing the Street

Old man stood on the corner,
About to cross the street;
Clutching at his shopping cart,
His face filled with defeat.

Initially I passed him by,
But slowly turned around.
The light went red to green but he
Stayed rooted to the ground.

He glanced both left and right and then
I knew that he was stuck,
Just hoping someone’d help him out;
He needed more than luck.

So I approached and offered aid;
He grabbed me by the arm.
“We’ll cross here first and then that way.”
He wasn’t big on charm.

He reeked of loneliness and pee;
His gait was slow as snails.
But I felt good for helping him;
That feeling never fails.

I’ve thought about him since that day,
How patiently he waited.
He didn’t ask or beg or plead,
Merely anticipated.

And I know that’s how I’d be, too;
I’d never ask a stranger
To help me out if I were down
Regardless of the danger.

It’s really sad to be infirm
With no one by your side,
But hopefully a passerby
Will manage to provide

That touch of human contact
That we need like cars need fuel;
It’s easy to forget how much
We need the Golden Rule.

Recess

Passing by a school today,
The kids were all outside.
Running up and down they seemed
Like youth personified.

The street was blocked from traffic,
So they were free to race,
And bounce and squeal and prance around
And give each other chase.

At what age, I did wonder,
Does recess cease to be?
Grown-ups need to frolic, too –
You cannot disagree.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful
If every day, a cop
Patrolled the town and then announced,
”All work will have to stop!”

Everyone must go outdoors
And trot or jump or skip.
No cigarettes or coffee break:
A back-to-youth-time trip.

No bullying would be allowed,
Just letting off some steam.
I know it’s so impractical,
But I can always dream.

So next time when you catch some kids
At recess, close your eyes.
Imagine all your colleagues there
And then just fantasize.

Picture them as they cavort
And laugh or smirk or smile.
The world would be a better place
With recess, urban-style!

Time

Time is something we never have much of,
The shortage of which we remain in the clutch of.
When working full time, it was always a battle,
And the story’s the same in New York or Seattle,
To get to each chore in a work-a-day week;
If you work, then you know of the truth that I speak.
There’s laundry and shopping and bills that await,
Plus cooking and cleaning and mail to keep straight.
Perhaps you have homework to help with or do,
Or a dentist appointment you have to get to.
Yet somehow you squeeze it all in – you’ve no choice,
And when the week’s over, it’s time to rejoice.

But now I’m retired, so time should expand;
At least that’s what I was led to understand.
Yet I’m busier now that when I went to work;
Of course, I sleep later – that’s surely a perk.
And I do get to exercise – daily, in fact;
And I work on the crossword with naught to distract.
I take classes and read, see museums and plays;
I accomplish so much it can make your eyes glaze.
But my point is – I still need more time than I’ve got.
I’m not quite complaining – believe me, I’m not.
But whether you’re working or basking at leisure,
Time should be recognized as a true treasure.
Slowly it slips through our fingers before
We realize it’s gone, and we want even more.
There’s never enough of it – let’s just admit it.
I’ve taken my stand – now it’s time to submit it.

Popcorn

I know they say of Frito-Lay,
“You cannot eat just one.”
But when it comes to popcorn,
I always eat a ton!

My husband cooks it on the stove –
No microwave for him!
And since he rarely eats his food,
He keeps himself quite trim.

But he enjoys when others eat
Whatever he creates;
And when his meals or snacks appear
Nobody hesitates.

Yet it’s his magic popcorn,
Slightly salted, from the pot,
That always earns him rave reviews,
Especially when it’s hot.

And I cannot resist it;
It’s such a total winner.
Though in my head, I hear my mom,
“You’re going to spoil your dinner!”

She’s right, this time, I know it,
Yet I am loath to stop;
‘Cause for a snack, this popcorn
Is the cream of any crop.

If you share my addiction,
Then you know what I’m about.
If popcorn were religion,
Then man, I’d be devout!

Chairs

My antique chairs have seats of cane
And they are driving me insane.
They sag, they shred, they sometimes rip,
Or sink into a butt-shaped dip.

I could replace the seats with wood
Or leather, and I know I should;
But damn – that cane, when new, looks great,
And so I do procrastinate.

Each day I sit more to the edge
And thus, uncomfortable, do pledge
That I will get them fixed before
A guest falls butt-first to the floor.

Yet guests are few, so I delay,
Though why, I really cannot say.
We often put off what we need,
But miracles aren’t guaranteed.

And so, for now, if you drop by
For coffee or some chazarai
I will not wait to hear your ouch –
We’ll sit and schmooze upon the couch.

Governors Island

Took the Governors Island ferry
For the first time ever.
What was so extraordinary
Was that I’d been there – never!

It’s been open for three years,
Just waiting for a visit.
Really, I cannot begin
To tell you how exquisite

The views are; from each angle
You’re surrounded by such beauty.
To tempt you, I could dangle
Words like, “Going there’s your duty.”

We biked (for free, one hour),
With the river at our side.
The scenery’d empower;
Every vista satisfied.

And then we did discover,
At a place called Picnic Point,
Lovely hammocks meant for lovers,
And we found one to anoint.

We sat and had some snack food
On some Adirondack chairs;
Relaxed, in a content mood,
Breathing in the seaside air.

A must-see destination
Most New Yorkers haven’t seen.
That fool procrastination
Will now sadly intervene,

For the Island closes Sunday.
Now you’ve missed your chance this year;
But you have to get there one day
When the magic reappears.

Crossword

Get the Monday New York Times
And do the puzzle fast!
Feel like you’re a genius –
Enjoy it – it won’t last.

Tuesday’s pretty simple, too;
I often zip right through it.
Wednesday’s takes me twice as long,
But mostly I can do it.

By Thursday, though, all bets are off.
The gauntlet has been thrown;
And though I’m tempted to seek help,
I struggle on alone.

I usually do finish,
But after several tries;
If I claimed total victory,
I would be telling lies.

But Friday, I’m a goner:
More blanks than words complete.
In order to improve the odds,
I’d have to finally cheat.

Some Saturdays I barely write
A word in any space.
Remember Monday’s genius?
Well, there’s hardly any trace.

Ah, but Sunday is a joy!
It teases and it winks.
It tantalizes, as your mind
Discovers all the links.

You slowly make connections;
Rejoice when something fits.
But there’s no celebration
If one prematurely quits.

So on and on you toil;
It’s really made you think.
Then, voila! You have finished –
But in pencil, never ink!

Milk

When I was a kid, our milk did arrive
In bottles, so fresh and so cold,
With small cardboard lids that you had to lift up
To reveal contents no one extolled.

Did we ever appreciate all that we had
When we opened that silver milk box?
Or did we take for granted those easier times
Which my memory often unlocks?

No microwaves, cell phones, or HDTV,
No Starbucks, McDonald’s, or such;
Though our choices were limited, we didn’t know
That we’d fondly look back on so much.

Now our milk comes in cardboard containers and no,
It’s not icy like I recollect;
But today in a specialty shop I did see
Bottled milk, which I didn’t expect.

And it brought it all back – that milk box on the porch,
Symbolizing those long-ago days;
But I’m pretty darn sure that when I filled my glass,
I did gulp it with nary a praise.

The lesson, I guess, is to see what you’ve got
And acknowledge the good that it does;
‘Cause even a seemingly meaningless thing
Can remind us of life as it was.

Feel the Love

On the subway, got a seat;
Want to read in peace.
Some musicians step aboard –
Will wonders never cease?

Not only do they want to play
With drums – are there no laws?
They lecture us ‘cause they expect
Some thunderous applause.

“Clap for us if you enjoy
Our music – ‘feel the love!’
And if you don’t, clap louder!”
How ‘bout – “none of the above!”

I keep my eyes averted,
Read one sentence twenty times;
And when they’re done they roam the car,
Collecting bills and dimes.

And still they chastise those of us
Like me, who don’t react.
I wish I had the nerve to counter
With aplomb and tact.

I did not “feel the love” –
But really, what gives you the right
To barge into my private space
And make me feel uptight?

I’m happy you’re not selling drugs,
As you so proudly stated;
But choosing to disturb the peace
You may be loved or hated.

I hope the next time I’m ensconced
Within a subway car,
Musicians choose to entertain,
But I’m not where they are!

On The Road

Ah, it’s nice to travel
Where you haven’t been before.
It’s like a mystery’s waiting there
Behind a curtained door.

The streets are unfamiliar;
All the landmarks catch your eye.
You try to picture living there,
But know you’d never try.

Exploring, though’s, delightful:
The restaurants and art;
The shops and theaters beckon
And you don’t know where to start.

You may luck out and have a guide
To help you navigate,
But even on your own you’ll find
So much to fill your plate.

Yet many people never leave
The confines of the known.
Familiar comforts satisfy;
They need that safety zone.

And though I understand them –
On some level, I’m relating –
I think by staying home you miss
A world that’s out there waiting.

So I suggest, if you have time
And money and good health,
Get out and travel someplace new –
You’ll build your mental wealth!

At Sea

When working on this blog,
To get it up and out,
I tried to go whole hog,
But I was plagued by doubt.

I knew not how to start;
I'm not a techie pro.
My husband did his part,
And it was good to go.

A poem a day, I thought,
Would be the meal I'd serve;
And if need be, I ought
To have some in reserve.

My file is filled with rhyme
I've fiddled with before,
So if I'm pressed for time
I'll see what's there in store.

Today I'm not at home,
And do not have the key
To search for one such poem
Within a friend's PC.

I thought I was all set;
Prepared before I left,
But the PC wouldn't get
My poem and I'm bereft.

I used my brain instead
To jot this saga down.
When you're in over your head,
You do not have to drown.

Grab any passing shred
Of idea that floats on by.
Eliminate the dread
On which we oft rely,

And nourish every inch
Of what you've got inside.
Inspiration will appear,
And you'll sail in with the tide.

Therein is writ this post:
Accomplishment abounds;
Though I'm not one to boast,
I like the way it sounds.

Autumn Feet

What do people like to wear
When temperatures are changing?
Closets in upheaval,
Folks intent on rearranging.

In this weather in-between
I look at people’s feet,
And marvel at the different shoes
I notice on the street.

Some are still in sandals,
All the socks still in the drawer;
Others strut in knee-high boots,
Since summer is no more.

As for me, I’m caught betwixt
Bare toes and boots that climb;
But really, what you choose to wear
Will never be a crime.

So keep those flip-flops on your feet
Or stroll in your best Uggs.
In New York no one really cares –
Your choice will garner shrugs.

But soon the mercury will drop
And then folks will look twice.
So sandal-wearers, be prepared
To make that sacrifice.

At the Dentist

Six months later – time again:
Have to check those teeth.
Pure bravado – make the call;
Fear is underneath.

X-rays easy, what a breeze!
‘Til the tools appear.
Mr. Thirsty hooks my mouth –
I hope I persevere.

Hygienist pokes and digs;
I close my eyes and suffer.
She thinks that some numbing gel
Will be sufficient buffer.

But it’s not – and so I try
To concentrate instead
On anything but where I am,
Enduring what I dread.

All right – I guess I could floss more,
But hey – it’s my decision!
So every six months I must face
Ms. Hygiene’s stark derision.

But finally, I rinse and spit;
She’s gotten all her kicks.
I’m told to come back in three months,
But I say – make it six!

Show Off

In the morning, sipping coffee,
Thoughts assail my brain.
Is my blog a bit show-offy,
Making me look vain?

Will some readers scoff and think,
“She thinks that she’s all that!”
And might they find my words in ink
Have fallen oh, so flat?

But if we feel that we possess
A talent, knack, or calling,
Must we fear that to express
That skill is rather galling?

I don’t think so – we must choose
To proudly strut our stuff,
And worry not ‘bout bad reviews;
Acknowledgement’s enough.

I can’t do math or swim or ski;
No mountains will I climb.
My flaws add up, but yes-siree,
I know that I can rhyme!