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.