A Toast

The year is over – wave goodbye;
There’s no way to retrieve it.
The days fly faster all the time –
I hardly can believe it.

For those whose year was filled with stress,
Let’s toast a new beginning;
‘Cause back within the starting gate,
There is a chance of winning.

And if 2010, for you,
Was chock-a-block with pleasure,
Here’s hoping that the year to come
Provides you with more treasure.

It’s always strange to land upon
The calendar’s last square.
It sneaks up, even though we’ve had
A full year to prepare.

Before the curtain’s final drop,
It helps to recognize
The many ways, both good and bad,
The year did so surprise.

And if we take a moment
Just to ponder and reflect,
We realize in the future
We don’t know what to expect.

So let us drink a toast
To next year’s mysteries concealed,
And hope we can accept
Whatever fate will be revealed.

From Memory

I often can’t remember
Where my glasses are, or keys.
I calm myself – it’s normal
And not Alzheimer’s disease.

But certain memories from the past
Are crisp and sharp and clear.
They’re lodged so deep within my brain,
They’ll never disappear.

If, years ago, you called me up
To chat or talk some jive,
You’d reach my Brooklyn number:
UL6-2955.

I haven’t lived in Brooklyn now
For over thirty years;
But in my mind, that phone number’s
The first one that appears.

My nana once remembered
Where she sat in second grade.
In reminiscing, her old self
Seemed like a masquerade.

She laughed that time and other snippets
From her past did pour:
Her first job, selling bloomers,
In a big department store.

I marveled then because, though senile,
She was quite herself;
Her recollections waited there
On an unconscious shelf.

The mind is really rather strange –
It’s like a treasure map.
It’s filled with tiny details,
Yet some places have a gap.

Poetry (Not) in Motion

The MTA has had its say
And made a dumb decision.
They’ve taken poetry away –
Let’s join in our derision.

For many years on bus and train
Some poetry was quoted;
But someone at the MTA
Thought it should be demoted.

Instead, there will be notices
Describing all the ways
The MTA’s improving things –
A sampler of self-praise.

I’ll miss those poems and quotes;
They added beauty, charm and class –
A step above from all the ads,
So bothersome and crass.

Whoever was in charge of this,
Prepare to catch some flak.
Perhaps this poet’s plea will help
To get us back on track.

Neither Snow...

We’re told so many things as children
That we do believe.
When kids learn Santa isn’t real,
They often weep and grieve.

And oh, how disappointing
When young tots unmask the truth –
That fairy’s really mom exchanging
Money for that tooth.

But yesterday, adults as well
Felt shocked and so betrayed,
Discovering our mailmen
Aren’t quite as they’re portrayed.

That famous quote of “Neither snow
Nor rain nor sleet nor hail…”
Is bogus now, because on Monday
Nobody got mail!

I guess we all survived without
Our catalogues and bills;
But what about the faith and trust
That well-known quote instills?

Forget it now – those postmen
Didn’t do their rounds appointed;
And like those kids with Santa Claus,
I feel so disappointed!

Snowman on 78th

After the storm, the plows were slow;
So many streets were closed.
I saw some cars abandoned –
Foolish drivers, I supposed.

A double bus was stranded
Right on 86th and First.
The cabs were few and far between;
The shovelers immersed.

The sun was brightening the day.
I loved just being out;
Though drifts and slushy corners
Made it hard to get about.

The most delightful sighting, though –
It made the day complete –
Was a little snowman sitting
In the middle of the street.

His tiny twig arms stuck straight out.
He had no hat or face;
But seeing him, you felt
That he belonged right in that place.

I’m sure the plows will squish him soon.
His parts will be dispersed;
But catch him if you can
On 78th Street, east of First.

It’s little things in life, you know,
That make it all worthwhile.
That unexpected snowman in the street
Sure made me smile.

First Snow

The weatherman predicted this;
They knew it was arriving.
It’s wonderful to wander in,
But not much fun for driving.

The flakes are fluttering in flight
Like monochrome confetti;
Because we had fair warning,
Most of us are stocked and ready.

I’ve had my walk, I’ve done my chores,
And now I’m home, all snug.
The whirling weather pulls me
To the window, like a drug.

The wind is whipping much more wildly
Than it was before.
According to the weatherman,
We should prepare for more.

So let it snow! I’m here inside,
All cozy, calm and warm.
This really is the place to be,
Protected from the storm.

Tomorrow we will have to deal
With shoveling and such;
But now I watch the swirling snow,
Enjoying it so much.

Empty Boxes

Once the gifts are opened
And the wrapping paper tossed,
The empty boxes sit, forlorn,
Their magic all but lost.

That flat screen fifty-inch TV
Must be plugged in and blaring;
To keep that sucker a surprise
Took hours of preparing.

That iPod and Nintendo Wii,
With docks and games and apps -
It sure required self-control
To keep them under wraps.

The jewelry and cameras,
All the clothes, perfume and toys,
Took days of thought and hoping
They’d engender joyful noise.

But whether all the gifts were met
With glee or with chagrin,
Dismantled boxes join the garbage,
Now their next of kin.

What held a treasure soon converts
To flattened, useless trash;
Its lovely wrapping ripped to shreds,
Discarded in a flash.

And soon the luster, too, will fade
From every gift so dear;
But there’ll be all new empty boxes
Christmas time next year.

Confessions on Request

I was walking past a church
And there, in writing, was expressed
The times for mass and, too, a note:
Confessions on request.

I’m not a Christian, so
It’s quite mysterious to me.
If you admit your sins, you’re clear
For all eternity?

I know there is some penance –
Certain prayers you must recite;
But does that wash away your guilt
Like magic, overnight?

It seems a better deal than what
My people do endure.
When we’ve done something wrong,
Our inner blame grows more and more.

How lovely it would be to just
Acknowledge what you’ve done,
Confess it all, be cleansed and then
Be guilt-free at square one.

I’m not about to change religions
But I am impressed
To think you can unburden all your sins
At your request.

I wonder if it’s easy
To commit an indiscretion
Knowing you can slough it off
With just a quick confession.

For me, it wouldn’t work –
It isn’t how my mind is built.
I’d probably confess and still
Be wracked as well by guilt.

Kneedy

Assuming that you like to walk or run or dance with ease,
You’ll find it hard to do so if you’re stymied by your knees.
I often walk for miles each day, in sunshine or in rain;
But suddenly one knee of mine is giving me some pain.

At first I just ignored it and believed I’d walk right through it,
‘Cause based on my experience, I knew that I could do it.
Since I’m a little older now, though, maybe I should rest it.
I might be doing damage and I have no need to test it.

So yesterday, when I got home, I packed the knee in ice.
Today it felt okay so I ignored my own advice.
I walked a lot of miles, in boots, to meet up with some friends,
Rejecting public transport as a means to reach my ends.

And now the pain’s returned, which is the price I have to pay.
Tomorrow I’ll go easy on it – keep the ache at bay.
I’m riding on the bus now and reflecting on this page
About the ways our bodies disappoint us as we age.

I hope my pain will vanish soon, like smoke upon a breeze;
‘Cause I am quite dependent on my former pain-free knees!

En Route

I do not have a magazine
To read while on the bus.
I didn’t feel like lugging one –
It seemed like too much fuss.

My book was just too cumbersome
To schlep around as well;
I figured I could occupy my mind
For just a spell.

I spent the day with friends
And now I’m tired, heading back.
At first I feel annoyed
That written words are what I lack.

But as long as I have paper
And a pencil with some lead,
I can jot down all the thoughts
That I have floating in my head.

And so I write these words
While on the bus en route to home.
My lack of what to read
Encouraged me to write this poem.

Hats Off

I wish I’d lived when hats were in –
They seemed to be required.
In photos from the forties,
All the heads were so attired.

My grandmother had lots of hats,
The boxes striped and round;
And on my visits, one by one,
On my head they were crowned.

I loved an orange one adorned
With tiny safety pins.
I modeled that one most of all,
My grandpa grinning grins.

How great to have a hat to match
Each blouse or dress or suit.
To polish off an outfit, why,
There is no substitute!

Of course, you can buy hats today.
I wear mine when it’s cold;
And young folks sport them jauntily
To look all rock and rolled.

But I’m referring to the time
When dressed-up heads weren’t bare.
Not living then, I missed my shot
At being debonair!

Not in Store

I’ve had enough of stores;
My limit’s finally been reached.
My former shopping passion
Has been permanently leeched.

I won’t be lured by coupons,
Sales or bargains or no tax;
No longer will I waste my time
Perusing all the racks.

The clothes all look the same to me,
The high end and the low.
I have so much at home to wear
And have no plans to grow.

Who cares if all my jeans
Do not reflect the latest style?
They’ve served me well so far
And they will last a good long while.

I don’t know if it’s age, but
It appears that I’m immune.
When temptation sings its song,
I cannot recognize the tune.

I’ll leave shopping to the young
Or else to those who love its lure;
But I plan to walk on by
And keep myself out of each store!

Car Trouble

When you think that your car isn’t acting quite right
And your husband is not a mechanic,
There really is not very much you can do –
So what I do, of course, is to panic.

I’m watching the heat gauge as it inches up
And I’m certain that trouble has landed.
I’m picturing us on the side of the road –
Freezing, tired and hungry and stranded!

It’s Sunday so service repair shops are closed.
It seems that our car needs some oil.
The reservoir cap feels cemented in place;
My stomach is starting to roil.

The car’s getting old – it has many more miles
Than the previous cars we have owned.
The time might be right to replace it with yet
One more Subaru, newer, but cloned.

But we finally stop at a gas station where
The attendant helps take off the cap;
And we feed her some oil and the heat gauge goes down –
Then we’re back on the road in a snap.

So I take a deep breath and I try to relax.
I let go of my panic and fear;
And I think to myself – why, this car is the best!
It will certainly last one more year!

Dust I Must

When someone says, “You could eat off the floors,”
They don’t refer to mine.
I wash the floors when they look gross,
But most days they look fine.

“Good Housekeeping” would not reward me
With their golden seal.
They’d look for someone, unlike me,
Who scrubs and scours with zeal.

My mother was far worse –
I am the apple, she the tree.
Perhaps the perfect homemaker’s
Not in my pedigree.

Yet I am not a total slob.
My home won’t earn disgust;
‘Cause when I notice any shmutz,
I’ll cave, and dust I must!

The River

I love to walk in Central Park –
What joy it does deliver!
But sometimes, I am in the mood
For walking by the river.

I’m talking East, not Hudson,
‘Cause it’s close to where I live;
Though it isn’t Central Park,
It has a lot to give:

The gently rolling water
With the sun’s reflected rays;
The boats, sometimes the Circle Line,
Creating waves and sprays.

The seagulls, looking much more regal
Than their pigeon friends;
The Roosevelt Island tram, whose cable
Gracefully suspends.

It’s peaceful by the river.
It allows your mind to rest;
And next to Central Park
It is the place I like the best.

Get Down

In the winter, when it’s freezing
And you cannot hack it,
You’ll be warm and cozy if
You’re wearing a down jacket.

Even if the chance of snow
Or sleet is quite remote,
You can’t go wrong if you are snug
Inside a down-filled coat.

Wool is never warm enough
And there’s no need for fur.
Bundle up in down and you
Will never utter “Brrrrrr….”

So while the stores are having sales,
Indulge - you won’t regret it.
Let nature throw the works at you.
Will you be cold? Forget it!

A Stranger's Joy

On a crowded subway train
Just past Grand Central Station,
A smiling woman gave a shout
With obvious elation.

“Today’s my birthday, everyone!
I’ve just turned twenty-three!”
And she went from anonymous
To subway V.I.P.

Lots of “Happy Birthdays” followed;
Also many grins.
The world would be a better place
If, each day, as it spins,

We all could follow this girl’s lead
And, disregarding dangers,
Announce some new accomplishment
To groups of total strangers.

Imagine sharing someone’s news –
It might just be contagious.
Happiness expressed out loud –
So novel and outrageous!

I guess eventually we might
Feel jealous, cross or jaded;
And many people do not want
Their private space invaded.

But still, I did admire so
That birthday person’s nerve,
And hope her day was filled
With all the joy she does deserve.

Frozen Treats

The ice cream shop I passed today
Was empty – no surprise.
When temperatures are freezing,
Ice cream doesn’t tantalize.

In rural places, ice cream stands
Close up once it gets cold.
They know that in the winter
Not too many cones are sold.

But in the city, reasoning
Like that just doesn’t fly.
Urban logic takes those rules
And kisses them goodbye.

So even if it’s ten degrees
And frost forms on your lip,
You’ll find a place to have a scoop
Of double mocha chip.

We city dwellers like to know
Our cravings can be met.
That’s partly why we live here –
Not in Osh Kosh or Tibet.

Although I passed that ice cream store
And was too cold to splurge,
I like to know it’s waiting there
For when I get the urge.

Waiting Room

There aren’t chairs sufficient
For everyone who waits;
Amenities deficient
And TV news that grates.

The décor’s pretty boring.
There’s litter on the floor.
So far nobody’s snoring;
I’m sure that that’s in store.

A sign announces eating
And drinking aren’t allowed.
That sign’s the only greeting
To welcome all the crowd.

We sit and wait for hours
While patients are post-op.
We must obey the powers
Of people at the top.

The day drags on forever,
But we cannot complain.
We’ve no IV’s to sever,
No nausea or pain.

Our purpose is providing
Support and love and cheer.
Our hope, of course, is riding
On their knowing we are here.

We pop into recovery
To say a quick hello;
And then make the discovery
They’ve got a while to go.

And so we’re back to waiting,
Which I guess I’m glad to do;
‘Cause this anticipating
Means at least they made it through.

Choosing a Tree

I’ve never bought a Christmas tree.
The holiday’s not mine;
But every year I check out
Every spruce or fir or pine.

I walk by all the outdoor stands
And deeply breathe the scent,
While tallying inside my head
The money I’d have spent.

Of course, I’d always pick a tree
Real full and fresh and fat;
Just getting it inside, I’d feel
Just like an acrobat.

And then the ornaments! What fun
To add some every year.
I’d be the first one in the stores
Before they’d disappear.

It’s easy just to fantasize
And then to amble by.
A Christmas tree is not a purchase
I could justify.

But when I watch the people
As they ponder and assess,
I realize who needs more to add
To my December stress.

So I stroll on and leave behind
A world I will not enter;
And if I need a tree, I’ll go
To Rockefeller Center!

Sunday Brunch

Sunday brunch is not my thing.
To me, there’s no appeal.
Dinner time is when I’d want
The atmosphere and meal.

It’s just too long for me to wait
For coffee and some toast.
I like my breakfast early
When I’m hungriest the most.

And as for lunch, I’m happiest
With ice cream or a snack.
At dinner time I get my fill
Of calories I lack.

Yet all the local restaurants
Are filled with crowds for brunch.
It’s a scene more lively than
At breakfast or at lunch.

It looks inviting, even more
When it is wet and cold;
Perhaps I’d cave and try it
If invited, truth be told.

But ‘til that time, I’m happy
Sitting home and sipping joe;
Yet ask me out to dinner
And I’m always set to go!

Fresh Flowers

Buying fresh flowers is really a treat.
They’re not really something you need;
But somehow they make the house look more complete
And your home looks more spiffy, indeed.

Where I live, there are florists, but that’s not for me;
My tastes run more simple and cheap.
The delis and markets have, I guarantee,
A selection for pockets not deep.

The bunches of daisy-like flowers appeal.
They’re colorful, cheerful and bright;
And at four or five dollars, they’re really a steal –
In a vase, they fill me with delight.

Some people like flowers of plastic or silk –
One purchase will last through the year;
But I’d be unhappy with buds of that ilk,
As real as such blossoms appear.

No, give me fresh flowers – I don’t need a scent.
It’s the color and feel that I crave;
And I’d much prefer them when I am alive
Than adorning a spot on my grave.

Thirty Years

Thirty years ago today
My father sadly passed away.
Though he was only fifty-five,
His heart could not keep him alive.

When those awful words were spoken,
I felt like my heart was broken.
We had talked the night before,
Not knowing he was at death’s door.

He’d joked because they’d shaved his chest;
Laughing was what he did best.
He then admitted he was scared;
I reassured him, unprepared.

He lived for two more days without
Awaking, then his heart gave out.
The funeral is all a blur,
But I know that what did occur

Was, as the limousine drove ‘round,
My dad was nowhere to be found.
I looked for him, and realized then,
He’d never be with us again.

The years have passed – the ache is less;
So many feelings to express.
My father’s name is still a’ bloom;
His grandson waited in my womb.

My son grew up, though never knowing
All that love he missed while growing.
I don’t need candles to remind –
We feel the love he left behind.

While I Was Gone

Getting away is really nice,
But so is coming back;
Waiting there for me to read
Is lots of mail – a stack!

Catalogues and cheerful cards
With lovely season’s greetings;
Bills to pay and notices
Of some upcoming meetings.

Newspapers and packages
I ordered, in a pile;
So much stuff accumulates
In just a little while.

Still, I love to sift through
All that’s waiting there for me.
I savor every envelope
That’s there for me to see.

It doesn’t take a lot of time
‘Cause always, without fail,
There’s so much more that’s waiting
When I access my email.

Pigging Out

A license lets you drive a car,
A motorbike or boat.
Another license shows the world
You own your dog or goat.

Poetic license gives a writer
Leeway with the rules.
You're allowed to ditch
The ordinary grammar tools.

When I'm away, I have a license
You've not heard about.
I can abandon my routines
And yield to pigging out.

I will eat three times as much
As I'd consume at home.
Sometimes it's quite justified,
Like, "When you are in Rome..."

But other times, it's just a way
To give in and to splurge;
Well, since I'm on vacation
I'll indulge my every urge.

Ice cream, shakes, an extra beer,
Some chips and dips and fries.
Luckily, vacations end
Before I'm up a size.

Then when I am back at home,
With appetite all stoked,
I take that pig-out license
And declare that it's revoked!

Freezing in Florida

Flew to sunny Florida
To pay a little visit.
Usually the warmth, compared to home,
Feels quite exquisite.

Yet today I took my walk
In New York winter clothes,
All bundled in my coat and scarf -
My water almost froze!

The local paper's headlines
Did announce, for all to see,
It hasn't been this cold down here
Since 1893!

I won't put on my bathing suit;
This weather seems unreal.
The love from all my relatives
Is all the warmth I'll feel!

To Build A Fire

When the temperature drops,
What I really require,
If I’m in my house,
Is the roar of a fire.

It makes the room cozy,
Appealing and snug.
It’s like the enveloping
Warmth of a hug.

My husband decided
He’s had quite enough.
To tend to the fire
Took painstaking stuff.

The lugging and stacking
Of wood was a pain;
The stoking was constant
And made him complain.

And then all the cleaning –
The ashes and dust!
He quit, and on me
A new job has been thrust.

I’m up to the challenge, though –
I do not mind.
Three fires so far
I’ve set up and designed.

I doggedly tended,
Stoked, bellowed and fed;
My husband was glad
It was not him instead.

He’s not off the hook, though.
He’d be if he could;
‘Cause no way in hell
Will I chop up the wood!

Ordering Online

So I order a couple of things online
And click once on “Submit;”
But nothing happens – nada –
So I wait a little bit.

Although it says – “Please click just once,”
I give a second click;
But still I’m getting no response
As time goes tick – tick – tick.

I call the site up on the phone,
Hear Muzak while on hold;
And when at last a person answers,
This is what I’m told:

“We have a problem with our site.
Your order has gone through;
But since you clicked the button twice,
Guess what? You ordered two!

We seem to have a little glitch,
So customers can’t tell
Their orders have been processed…”
And I said – what the hell!

“We’ll get a representative
To help you – just you wait.”
So now I’m listening again
To music that I hate!

Okay, the service rep comes on
And tells me – “Do not fret.
Your order hasn’t gone through twice,
Or even one time yet!”

I’m writing this while still on hold;
A supervisor’s needed.
Next time I’ll listen to advice
I really should have heeded:

A bird in hand bought in the store
Trumps two birds bought online.
If I take this advice to heart,
I’m sure I’ll be just fine!

Coupon

Stores will try to lure you in
With lots of discount pricing,
But there is one thing that they do
That’s tops in their enticing.

Many shoppers can’t resist it;
Crowds, like birds, will swoop on
Any items they can find
For which they have a coupon.

Spend a hundred dollars now
And later you’ll save twenty;
Add up the percentages
And it sure seems like plenty.

So I wander through the aisles
With coupon clutched in hand,
And feel like I do not belong
In this consumer land.

There are bargains to be had
But I have no success.
I come home empty-handed,
Quite a failure, I confess.

My pocket holds my coupon
So I pull it out in sorrow;
And realize, in delight, it won’t
Expire ‘til tomorrow!

At What Cost

How many hours does it cost
To search for something you have lost?
It might be something you’ve misplaced
That’s vanished like it’s been erased.

Perhaps you dropped it when outside;
If so, your hopes will soon subside.
It might be hiding in plain sight,
Just hoping that you’ll reunite.

You agonize and pull your hair
When it won’t turn up anywhere.
But often it is gone for good,
A fact you should have understood.

At last that moment happens when
You know you’ll not see it again.
Your sad acknowledgement, a sigh,
Is equal to a glum goodbye.

I think all people have been there,
With objects lost to who knows where.
No matter how we may evolve,
Some mysteries we cannot solve.

Close to Perfect

Today was close to perfect.
Here are all the things I did:
Read my book so it’s not overdue,
Heaven forbid!

Next I took my morning walk,
Then breakfast and The Times;
Worked the puzzle, checked my mail,
Then dressed for winter climes.

Headed out to Union Square
For crafts there on display,
Stopping first for sustenance
At the Chocolate Café.

Had a cup of cocoa brew,
So deep and rich and sweet;
And, too, a chocolate Madeleine,
Which made the meal complete.

Next checked out the crafty things
And bought myself a hat;
Raced on to a movie,
Which began just as we sat.

Headed back uptown for dinner
At a favorite place;
The wine and food were excellent,
A meal I could embrace.

Now I’m home, reflecting on
A day that rates an A;
My husband gets the credit ‘cause
He made it be that way!

Into the Storm

When the weather’s wet and windy,
It’s a special treat
To curl up and remain indoors;
Such luxury is sweet.

A working person cannot choose
To call in sick for weather.
No matter how you dread it,
You must get your act together.

Sometimes even when you’re off,
You’re forced by obligation
To venture out into a storm
To reach your destination.

Today was such a day for me.
Despite my knuckles clenched
Around my strong umbrella,
In two minutes I was drenched.

The sweeping winds and pounding rain
Allowed no chance to hide.
I wished I could have changed my plans
And spent the day inside.

But I went out and braved the storm,
Though I will not deny
I would have been much happier
At home, relaxed and dry.

Three Nuns

As I approached the promenade,
A place for walks or runs,
I spotted, strolling rapidly,
Three dressed-in-habit nuns.

They ambled in size order
In their sensible black shoes,
Absorbed in conversation,
Hardly noticing the views.

I followed them at first, drawn to
Their black and white attire;
Others stared as well – perhaps
To question or admire.

It isn’t every day you see
A nun, yet here were three.
I wondered where they came from,
Which was quite a mystery.

When faced with the unusual,
My mind will reach and grab it;
And sometimes, please forgive me,
This might even be a habit!

Cyber Monday

If you go online today,
Then you will be accosted
By every catalogue there is –
It will leave you exhausted!

Just in case you didn’t shop
At each Black Friday sale,
Today’s the day to shop online
And bargains will prevail.

Take off ten percent and yes,
They’ll send it with free shipping.
Think of all the crowds and hassles
That you will be skipping.

Just make sure your anti-virus
Software’s up to date;
Cyber-thieves do lurk
And your ID they’ll confiscate.

But if you’re careful, you can shop
Right from your living room.
Modern times enables
Even hermits to consume.

So grab that credit card,
You shoppers – now’s your time to shine!
All your gifts can now be found
If you log in online.

Trading Up

If an opportunity
Came knocking at your door,
Would you ask it in for tea,
Wanting to hear more?

Supposed it was explained to you
Your life would so improve
If to a bigger, better house
You’d have the chance to move.

Some folks would weigh the difference
Of finances and such,
And then decide to go for it,
Not agonizing much.

Other people’d hesitate,
Afraid to take that leap;
In their indecisive mode,
They’d lose a lot of sleep.

As for me, I’m set for life.
I like where I reside;
Yet when I visit better homes,
My envy I can’t hide.

Perhaps I could trade up, I think.
I’d love that water view,
And all that space to entertain –
Such joys I could accrue.

Yet since my house is free and clear,
It doesn’t make much sense
In this, the winter of my life,
To take on that expense.

So when I visit other homes,
Though lovely they might be,
I’m happy still to come back home,
A perfect place for me!

By a Thread

I got a phone call bearing news
Of an untimely death.
It seems a former colleague, in his sleep,
Took his last breath.

We worked together many years;
He hadn't yet retired.
Yet now his lease on life
Has prematurely been expired.

It makes you realize life is short.
Of course we know that, still,
We don't expect that sudden drop
Before we crest the hill.

But we can never be prepared
For our Grim Reaper date;
So we're reminded we should live
Before it is too late.

One minute you are full of plans
And suddenly, you're dead.
We forget that every day,
We're hanging by a thread.

Receiving news about a death
Feels just like being slapped.
It makes me think about that thread,
Just waiting to be snapped.

Shopping Around

We buy our gas in Jersey,
If we can work it out.
The price is so much cheaper
If you choose a Jersey route.

For coffee, I like Trader Joe’s,
And Shoprite has great beer;
Fairway has flat bagels,
Which quickly disappear.

Chinatown has almond cookies,
Worth a special trip;
And berries from my local fruit stand
I will never skip.

One store has the cheese I buy,
A different one the meat;
A gourmet store has all the bread
I really love to eat.

I have my favorite sources
For my muffins, scones and pies,
And on occasion I’ll indulge
And make some Whole Foods buys.

It really pays to shop around
No matter what you buy;
‘Cause as the brokers like to say,
You should diversify!

"Alice's Restaurant"

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving,
Despite the turkey meal,
If I missed Arlo Guthrie’s song,
My husband at the wheel.

For every year, Thanksgiving Day,
As it approaches noon,
We find the FM station
That’s all set to play that tune.

It’s part of our tradition
As we take our turkey jaunt
To join with Arlo as he sings
About that restaurant.

The words are mostly spoken
And it’s twenty minutes long,
But it’s a way to join my past
And present, with a song.

“You can get anything you want”
Is how the lyric goes;
But what I’m really getting
Is not anything that shows.

For flashing to the 60’s
In the way that that song does,
Reminds me of those days gone by
And life the way it was.

If someone said one day I’d sing
With my kids ‘bout the draft,
It would have sounded crazy
And I’m sure I would have laughed.

And yet today, we did just that,
Our voices at full blast;
And I thank Arlo Guthrie
For that linkage to my past.

Not in Service

When I’m waiting for a bus
And I am running late,
There’s a sight I often see
And it’s one that I hate.

As the time goes ticking by,
I get extremely nervous;
Then I’ll finally see a bus
But it says “Not in Service.”

I don’t understand that sign;
The engine must be working.
Envisioning the driver’s face,
I think he must be smirking.

Passing by a crowded stop,
He drives right by – to where?
It’s obvious we’re waiting,
But he doesn’t seem to care.

If he did, he’d surely stop
And call to us in line,
“Hop on board and by the way,
Please disregard that sign!”

But that will never happen.
“Not in Service” buses pass;
Their engines hum, their drivers smirk,
Their tanks are full of gas.

And we, the passengers-to-be,
Stand in the cold and rain;
And there is nothing we can do,
But rightfully complain!

'Tisn't Yet the Season

Though it isn’t quite Thanksgiving,
Christmas goods have hit each store.
Every year this happens sooner
Than it did the year before.

It was warm today and sunny,
But fake snowmen did appear;
And some FM stations are already
Spreading Christmas cheer.

At least Chanukah is early,
So to me there is a reason
Why I should be getting ready
For this holiday-time season.

But if you’re expecting Santa,
Then you have a while to wait;
Though if you believe the stores, it’s time
To start to celebrate.

Forty-Seven Years Ago

Where were you in ‘63
On this November date?
Surely you remember
If you weren’t born too late.

How you heard has certainly
Been branded in your mind.
That’s the day when innocence
Was cruelly left behind.

The images repeatedly
Shown on the TV screen
Remain indelible and still
Surprising and obscene.

The pillbox hat, the bright pink suit,
The head snapped back, the blood;
John-John’s small salute releasing
Tears enough to flood.

Before the towers tumbled down
We had ourselves a taste
Of how a gorgeous day could soon
By horror be replaced.

Those who weren’t yet alive
Have heard, but can’t remember;
But we who watched will not forget
That sad day in November.

Perked

My coffee pot broke down today;
I’ve had it thirty years.
It always made a perfect brew,
Despite how it appears.

It’s dented, dull and slightly stained.
Its handle’s partly burned;
But when I put the coffee up,
I’d leave it, unconcerned.

It’s quite old-fashioned, you should know,
Because it percolates.
When people tout the joys of drip,
We’ve had some great debates.

I perk it for eight minutes
And not one drop do I waste.
When visitors enjoy a cup,
They marvel at the taste.

There’s only room for three small cups,
Just right to have each morning;
And then, today, it didn’t work –
Weak coffee, with no warning.

I had a spare pot tucked away
My husband once presented,
Thinking I’d prefer a new one
To one old and dented.

And so I tried it out today.
Perhaps I am to blame –
I set it up just right and yet,
It didn’t taste the same.

I miss my little coffee pot.
I know things cannot last,
But sadly, here’s another thing
Much better in the past.

Car Radio

Watch the people in the cars,
Grooving to a song;
Can’t hear what they’re listening to,
So I can’t groove along.

But my radio is set
To music that I like,
And I am bopping to the beat
While driving on the pike.

There are drivers tuned to jazz
Or classical or rap,
Oldies, rock & roll, all found
Upon the music map.

Country music has its fans;
Some favor R & B.
Many turn to talk shows
When they tire of melody.

No matter what the station is
That’s playing in each car,
We’d all agree that radio
Helps car trips seem less far.

Vibrate

I heard a cell phone do its buzz;
On vibrate it was set.
I never found out whose it was
And it’s vibrating yet.

Although I didn’t hear its ring,
It made its presence known.
Who knows what message it did bring,
Or who did own that phone.

Perhaps it plays a snazzy tune
When on another setting;
But, somehow on this afternoon,
That buzz is all I’m getting.

The owner has stepped from the room
So I alone do hear it;
And whether it brings joy or doom,
It’s not my place to clear it.

So I’ll just sit and listen
As it vibrates as it should,
And hope a smile will glisten
When the news it brings is good.

What to Wear

I never know quite how to dress
When temperatures may vary.
The weatherman spouts numbers
But they’re often arbitrary.

For even if it’s warm outside,
The weather rather pleasing,
You may encounter subway cars
That totally are freezing.

Some office buildings also keep
Their A/C on all year;
So if you leave your sweater home,
You will not persevere.

I guess when getting dressed
All-weather wear should be your goal,
‘Cause you can never know
Who’s at the damn A/C control!

With You in Mind

An advertisement in The Times
Intrigued me and much more;
It showed a German watch
For purchase at a Soho store.

The catchphrase there in black and white,
Right there for you to find,
Is, at three hundred bucks, that watch is
“Priced with you in mind.”

Just who’s the “you” they’re thinking of;
It’s certainly not me.
I won’t spend that much on a watch
And that’s a guarantee.

Yet somebody who wrote that ad
Believes the price is right;
And those who’d buy that watch
Would surely climb to fashion’s height.

But what about the rest of us
Who will not spend that much?
I think the ad man just might be
A little out of touch.

It’s obvious that to this new
Economy he’s blind;
For many of us aren’t those
That ad man had in mind.

Parenthood

Actors act and drivers drive
And workers work construction.
Policemen police and teachers
Are instructing with instruction.

Dentists drill and politicians
Govern when not stumping.
Joggers jog and body builders
Build their muscles pumping.

Writers write and doctors heal
And lawyers help their clients.
Research people search for cures,
Relying on their science.

Musicians play their instruments
And dancers practice dance.
Magicians do hypnosis
Getting someone in a trance.

People work at jobs all day
Both slow or in a hurry;
And if they’re also parents
Then their main job is to worry.

Your occupation never trumps
Your work as dad or mama,
Even if your title’s
Like the one held by Obama.

Parenthood is one career
For which you cannot train.
You join its ranks while unfamiliar
With its vast terrain.

Yet whether it’s a job at which
You stink or you excel,
Your offspring’s always on your mind,
Before your clientele.

No tangible rewards exist –
Promotion, perk or praise;
But, oh, the finished product
Never ceases to amaze!

Jeans

Ever since my early teens,
When off from work or school,
I’ve always like to dress in jeans,
‘Cause denim seemed to rule.

Of course, they were called dungarees
And only came in blue;
And when they ripped right through the knees,
We knew just what to do.

We’d sew a patch right on that rip
Or else we’d throw them out;
‘Cause pants with holes was just not hip –
It was a poor man’s shout.

Today, with denim still in style,
The choices do astound.
Just hit a store and stroll the aisle,
For jeans are all around.

Low-slung, studded, tight, distressed,
In colors of your choice;
What you pick out when you get dressed
Reflects your novel voice.

Yet in my closet, I can’t find
One pair of jeans I like.
My fashion sense is way behind
Or maybe just on strike.

It once was easier to choose
From Wranglers, Levi’s, Lees,
But jeans so varied do confuse –
I miss my dungarees!

Looking for a Spot

You drive one hundred miles,
Make it home as it turns dark;
You cannot wait to have a beer,
But first you have to park.

You circle round and round the block,
Your prospects looking dim;
So many cars are looking, too,
Your chances seem quite slim.

You notice motorcycles
Parked in car-sized parking spots.
Your blood pressure is on the rise,
Your stomach all in knots.

Ten minutes turns to twenty, yet
You sit and stew and drive.
Your family’s home and wondering
How long ‘til you arrive.

Your dashboard clock says now
It’s thirty minutes to the dot
Since you began your quest,
And suddenly – you see a spot!

It’s tight but it is legal;
You maneuver and you’re in.
A passerby might wonder
‘Bout the reason for your grin.

‘Cause once you’ve parked, you’re feeling great –
Not nervous, tense or queasy.
How quickly we forget, and think
That parking spot was easy!

The Gift

My husband bought a gift for me.
He doesn’t know it yet;
But when he hears about it
He’ll be happy, I would bet.

Our anniversary is soon
So it’s the time to splurge,
And at a craft fair I was hit
With that so timely urge.

Of course, I could have purchased
My new necklace for myself.
It lured me like a siren song
From its perch on a shelf.

But usually I would not let
Desire overrule
The buy/resist parts of my brain
Engaged in quite a duel.

But since there’s cause to celebrate
The day that we were wed,
I made the deal as if my husband
Purchased it instead.

I cannot wait to show him
The cool necklace that he bought.
He’ll love it more when he finds out
The joy that he has wrought.

Cruise Ship

I’ve never ventured on a cruise.
For me, there’s no appeal;
And that’s just been confirmed
By this late Carnival ordeal.

Imagine packing for a trip,
A long-desired vacation.
You agonized but finally chose
The perfect destination.

You made all your arrangements –
Plants and mail and care of pets;
You board your ship and head to sea –
You’re feeling no regrets.

But on your thirteen story ship,
An unexpected fire
Erupts and takes the power out –
How’d such a thing transpire?

For now 3,000 passengers
Aboard a ship called Splendor,
Have learned first hand exactly what
This happening would render.

Three days at sea with no A/C
Nor bathrooms – oh, the smell!
No hum of electricity –
It sounds like living hell.

But most of those on board declared
They’d take another cruise.
With refund offers and free trips,
There isn’t much to lose.

For me – no thanks! I’ll stick to land.
I’ll be content to skip
The chance of being stranded
On a hot, tight, smelly ship!

Avoiding the Flu

I went to get a flu shot
So I won’t get the flu.
It seemed to be the proper
Grown-up, right-on thing to do.

I bypassed all the drug stores
Which announced they had the shots,
And went to see my doctor
With my stomach all in knots.

I wasn’t really nervous
‘Cause I have the shot each year,
But I’ve been sick and only now
Do I feel in the clear.

Yet I will be injected
With some influenza germs;
And I just hope my blood and them
Can quickly come to terms.

Because the thing I do not want,
The last thing I would pick,
Is that the flu beats down my cells
And I start feeling sick.

Now – ouch! I got the flu shot.
One jab and it was done.
My immunity to getting flu’s
Officially begun.

I think I’m quite protected.
I feel confident and strong.
Of course there always is
The possibility I’m wrong!

Beyond the Border

A discussion that I overheard
Intrigued and made me think.
The topic was upcoming trips –
Most women were in sync.

One was California bound,
Another, Arizona.
They all preferred a U.S. tour –
No Rome or Barcelona.

“There’s just so much to see right here,
Such treasures to explore.
Our country’s filled with beauty
And it’s waiting at our door.

Europe is a world away;
It’s dangerous and pricey.
The languages are challenging
And all the food is spicy!”

While I agree the U.S.A.
Has many great attractions,
I was surprised to hear
Such anti-Europe trip reactions.

I, too, would like to travel to
Sedona and Palm Springs;
But Italy is where I’ll go
When I next pack my things.

There’s a limit to the time
We splurge on a vacation,
And I will never make it to
Each yearned-for destination.

But of the many places
I’ve included on my list,
Most are on the continent
These women just dismissed.

We all have reasons why we make
Our own sightseeing choices,
But I was taken quite aback
By U.S. only voices.

Heading Out

After you’ve been sick
And you rejoin the world outside,
You realize how much you have missed
What nature can provide.

The sunshine and the crisp, fresh air,
The sky, the clouds, the breezes;
It feels great to breathe it in -
It’s worth a few more sneezes.

Cabin fever sucks you dry
Although you may keep busy;
But if you venture out too soon,
You’ll get worn out and dizzy.

Still, today I’ll take a chance
To test how I am feeling.
Honey sunshine’s beckoning
And boy, it looks appealing!

I know I’m not completely cured,
Don’t feel quite up to snuff;
But maybe with a little push
That will just be enough.

I need to taste this autumn day;
I’ve been indoors too long.
A little voice says, “Take it slow.”
I hope that voice is wrong!

Fifteen Minutes

Today I’m in The New York Times!
I’m really so excited.
It isn’t every day that my
Submissions are invited.

I emailed people that I know
So they can check it out;
And then I wondered if it was
Obnoxious to so shout.

I’m proud, of course, but must admit
I’m saying – Look at me!
Perhaps I should have let them
Spot it accidentally.

I wonder ‘bout those writers
With books on a Borders shelf.
Do they feel tempted to announce,
“I wrote that book myself!”

Would they grab would-be customers,
Point to each stacked-up spine,
And gleefully declare aloud,
“You know – that book is mine!”

They’d probably just stand and gaze
And share a little smile.
That’s the classy way to go,
A published author’s style.

But since I’m still an amateur,
I guess that I can crow –
My poem is in The Times!
If you don’t have your copy – go!

Detour

The New York City Marathon
Has closed the bridge we need;
But there are other ways to go,
And that is guaranteed.

Often detours block our path –
Most often, we don’t know it;
And they can cut our journey off
Or at the least, just slow it.

Roadblocks unforeseen appear
In many different guises.
Steering through such obstacles
May yield a few surprises.

The road is rarely smooth
Between Point A and Endpoint B.
Our driving skills may help
To keep us safe, to a degree.

But every day, it’s possible
Our route will be diverted;
And if we’re diligent
A tragedy may be averted.

We cannot plan for detours
But at least we stand a chance,
If just their probability
We ponder in advance.

More than Half

In most relationships
The give and take is not quite equal.
While dating, it might seem to be,
But rarely in the sequel.

You may divide the chores, per se:
He vacuums and you dust.
Somehow, those things get sorted out –
You tinker and adjust.

But household tasks are not enough
To take an honest measure
Of who contributes what percent
To boost the other’s pleasure.

So many other factors enter
Into this equation;
And naturally the balance tips
On more than one occasion.

But I can state with certainty,
Can prove it on a graph,
That in my life, my husband
Truly is the better half.

He’s more than just supportive,
He’s my truest, biggest fan.
There hasn’t been a better partner
Since “I do’s” began.

He teases me that I’d miss him
More than he would miss me
If he would predecease,
And really, I can’t disagree.

I know I’m luckier than most
Though I don’t really show it.
I’m writing this so my sweet spouse
And all the world may know it.

Energy (or Lack of)

To make a vacuum cleaner go,
You have to plug it in.
Electric current also helps
Your toaster to begin.

A flashlight needs a battery
And likewise for a watch.
It’s known that many get a boost
From one quick shot of Scotch.

But power outages occur
And batteries go dead;
While AA members make a vow
And soda sip instead.

When energy’s depleted
If you have a sickness bug,
You feel just like a vacuum
With a fraying wire or plug.

Appliances are clueless, though,
When they are not employed.
The humans who depend on them
Have cause to be annoyed.

So we exchange the dried out cells
Or we replace the fuse.
It’s often not the biggest deal
With not too much to lose.

Yet when we’re sick, we’re so wiped out
To all it’s evident
That our get up and go has gone,
And who knows where it went.

So here I sit, not feeling great,
Without my normal pluck;
And, missing all my energy,
I feel unplugged and stuck!

Having Time

Having time’s a precious thing
And really, one should use it.
We can’t know what lies ahead
And someday, we could lose it.

For some, it’s extra hours
Just to sleep or lie in bed.
Others paint or cook or knit
Or exercise instead.

If you are not hemmed in by work
Or family obligations,
The minutes stretch out, beckoning
To all your inclinations.

These well-earned moments let me read
Two novels at a time!
The crossword waits for me each day
As does my daily rhyme.

I gobble up The New York Times
And several magazines.
I walk for exercise
And am ensconced in my routines.

I take some crafting classes
And I email without fail.
I get to take advantage
When I see a special sale.

I travel sometimes – not enough,
But more than years before;
Yet when I’m home, I’m happy
As my key unlocks the door.

I worked for many years and now
I’m reaping the reward.
I have the time to fill my way,
And I am never bored.

Survivor

I watched a You-Tube video,
A forward from a friend,
A story so uplifting
It’s a site I’d recommend.

A Holocaust survivor,
Now the age of 106,
Has been kept alive by music
And her playing does transfix.

She plays the piano as she did
For Nazis in the war.
Her spirit and her courage
One can really not ignore.

She has no rancor in her soul;
She never does complain.
She simply does not understand
What hatred lets us gain.

She’s visited by many people
Just to be inspired.
Being in her presence,
Optimism is required.

It’s hard for me to comprehend
An attitude like hers,
Sailing forth through life
Despite the horror that occurs.

It makes me realize temperament,
Much more than looks or smarts,
Can help you to avoid the pricks
Of nature’s poison darts.

An upbeat personality
And instinct to survive
Can possibly be what it takes
To not just live, but thrive.

Election Day

I have a cold, stuffed nose, sore throat,
But still I’ll make it out to vote.
Though my one voice won’t count a lot,
It’s all the input I have got.

When people grouse ‘bout those elected,
Often it’s as I suspected,
Voting goes against their grain,
Yet they’re entitled to complain!

So I will hustle to the school,
Use paper ballot – retro-cool,
And make the choices I think best
While passing over all the rest.

Tomorrow we will see who won
From all the people who did run;
And if my candidates got through,
I’ll know I did what I could do.

Day of the Dead

In Mexico, today’s the day
To celebrate the dead.
The people aren’t scared or sad;
They feel great joy instead.

Festivities fill up the night
To honor those who’ve passed.
Acknowledgement is made that life
Is short and does not last.

Thus on this day, the skeleton’s
An image to revere;
Though now it lies six feet below,
At one time it lived here.

So everyone remembers
And drinks toasts to the deceased.
It’s such a lovely custom
And not morbid in the least.

It makes me think of those I know
Who have succumbed to death,
And hope somebody thinks of me
When I take my last breath.

And as the years go by,
It’s very comforting to think
That maybe in my memory
Someone will raise a drink.

Mum's the Word

I bought a potted mum this fall;
Its buds were mostly closed.
It looked so full it would be gorgeous
One day, I supposed.

The petals that were poking through
Were bright and purply-pink.
I pictured them by my front door -
Quite perfect, I did think.

It took them days to bloom and then
I saw, to my surprise,
A burst of rosy daisy-twins
With yellow-centered eyes.

It is the fattest batch of mums
That I have ever seen -
Voluptuous, robust and bright,
Yet soothing and serene.

I know its color soon will fade
As frost makes itself known;
And as the petals do succumb,
Each branch will look like bone.

When that occurs, I'll gently place
My mum upon the ground;
Perhaps it will survive the season
When I'm not around.

And when, next fall, I check it out,
It's possible I'll see,
A new pink blossom, half-unfurled,
Just waiting there for me.

If not, I'll buy another one;
But 'til next autumn comes,
I'll get a charge each time I gaze
On my fantastic mums.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

I am not a patient person,
Understatement of the year,
Still, my burgeoning frustration
Will to some of you be clear.

I’m online to make an album,
Photos fresh from my son’s wedding,
But the site’s not user-friendly –
That’s the message I am getting.

First I upload all the pictures –
That takes longer than it should –
Then I try to fill the pages,
And at first it’s looking good.

But each time I choose a layout,
Say four pictures on a page,
They keep altering my set-up,
‘Til I’m finally in a rage.

As I post my second picture,
The first photo disappears.
Then my four-pic layout changes
And I’m very close to tears.

I don’t do well with frustration,
So I yell and stomp and rant.
I am tempted to forget it,
But I’ve started – so I can’t.

For right now I’m on hiatus;
Thought I’d take a little break.
I’ll attempt to finish later,
Though that might be a mistake.

Many people undertake such projects,
All without a glitch;
If only patience lived in me,
I wouldn’t have to bitch.

Surprises

Life is filled with strange surprises,
Good and bad, in different sizes.
You can’t know which you are getting –
Funeral or joyous wedding.

Satisfaction may exist,
But then you fall and break your wrist;
Or you plan to go to class
When sickness lands you on your ass.

Car repairs may spoil a trip;
Exercise may hurt a hip.
Rain delays may halt a game;
Angry words may end in blame.

Picnic plans may be postponed.
You lose the best thing you have owned.
With no notice, jobs are ended;
Leases sometimes not extended.

Since we cannot know ahead
The time that we will end up dead,
We should grab each moment by the balls,
Expecting climbs, plateaus and falls.

Without predicting nature’s whims,
We can’t be sure who sinks or swims.
So start each day with wary eyes,
Preparing for the next surprise.

The Why

When you see a friend or neighbor
Who is looking sick,
You must make a snap decision
And say something quick.

You may comment on appearance,
Which requires tact;
You can’t say, “You’re looking lousy,”
Though that may be fact.

You can ask how things are going
And then take your cues;
‘Cause the ball’s not in your court
To talk about the news.

Or the final choice before you
Is to just ignore it;
Though it’s not quite sympathetic,
I am gung-ho for it.

The alternatives are awkward;
It’s a real hard sell,
Most especially with someone
That you don’t know well.

So I smile and give a greeting,
Then say diddly-squat;
Though my mind is racing,
Thinking what disease she’s got.

Would I be a better neighbor
If I asked what’s wrong?
Or would I be venturing
To where I don’t belong?

My reason to keep quiet
Is I hate to pry,
But life is simpler
When you do not know the why.

Sharing News

How do you communicate
When you have news to share?
Phone calls seem to be the best
If there’s no time to spare.

Email gets the job done, too,
But only if it’s checked;
Otherwise your words will be
Unable to connect.

Letters in the mail are fun
If you have time to wait;
But snail mail can’t be trusted
And may get there way too late.

Facebook is a venue used
To spread your scoop to friends.
Twitter, too, sends messages
Which brevity defends.

Long ago, with telegrams,
Our news was sent in code.
It took days to learn if we
Broke down or if we crowed.

I use the phone and email
And yet Facebook I resist.
I’m sorry I am not your “friend” –
I doubt if I am missed.

So if you want to send to me
Some pictures or some news,
Email me or make a call
Or mail it if you choose.

I promise I’ll get back to you
Online or on the phone,
But when I do, I will converse
With you and you alone.

Tune-Up

The human body’s like a car –
It starts out fresh and new;
But wear and tear appears
Because of all that it’s been through.

The wrinkles, sags and scratches
Can compare to dents and dings;
And sometimes there is damage
From each pothole that life brings.

But when you push your body,
It’s like driving at top speed.
Your engine light comes on
And that’s a warning you must heed.

You feel like you can’t move an inch;
You sputter and you stall.
Your chassis needs a rest –
It’s like a little wake-up call.

And so today, I took the hint
And stayed home to relax.
The past few weeks my engine
Has been revving to the max.

Perhaps a simple tune-up
Will restore me to my prime;
At least I can maintain my thoughts
And set them out in rhyme.

Too Tired

I’m almost too tired
For writing this poem.
The day’s almost over,
And I just got home.

So I’ll just jot down
A few thoughts from my head.
It won’t be a gem,
Just a sparkle instead.

My body is craving
Some hours of sleep,
So into my bed
I am ready to creep.

I’ll type up these words
And I’ll hurry to post,
Knowing these verses
Are weaker than most.

But still, I’ll have managed
To stick to my plan;
And thus, I continue
The job I began.

Recap

In The New York Times today,
My son and his new wife,
Are pictured, smiling and serene,
And very true to life.

Last night we danced and drank a toast
To wish them wedded bliss,
As soon as they exchanged their vows
And sealed them with a kiss.

The night was magical to me,
So filled with love and joy,
But strange to realize that the groom
Was once my little boy.

I watched him circling the room,
Engaged in smiles and laughter,
And knew that he could handle
All the life stuff that comes after.

And we, the wedding celebrants,
With spirits high and glowing,
Danced the hora and soaked up
The warm good feelings flowing.

Today we’re tired and relieved
We had a perfect night,
And when I saw The New York Times,
That topped off my delight.

The Big Day

You plan, you shape, you agonize –
Each detail paid attention;
And when the day arrives,
There is no possible extension.

So many factors do exist
Outside of your control,
Despite the fact perfection
Has been, more or less, your goal.

The friends and family gather round,
Affirming their devotion.
Having them all there brings up
A fountain of emotion.

And now the big day has arrived.
The rest is up to fate.
You hope to let your worries go
And simply celebrate.

Pre-Wedding

Tonight we rally all the troops
For a pre-wedding dinner.
I’m not an expert on these things –
In fact, I’m a beginner.

The out-of-town guests from all ports
Will congregate to eat,
An opportune time for the
Joining families to meet.

From California, Colorado,
Florida they flew;
A testament to their support,
Familial blood like glue.

I guess we’ll schmooze and mingle,
Have a drink and share a laugh.
We’re all in this together
For the bride and groom’s behalf.

It’s really just a soothing time
Before the big event.
Calming jitters by uniting
Is the main intent.

We’ll dine, we’ll sip and hopefully,
Good feelings will be spreading,
All in preparation for
Tomorrow night – the wedding!

Tomorrow's Poem

Today I write tomorrow’s poem;
Tomorrow there’s no time.
I need a little quiet space
So I can mold my rhyme.

With visitors from out of town
And details to attend to,
I will not have the time to write
And don’t wish to pretend to.

So as you read these words today,
Don’t let yourself be fooled.
If others claim they saw me write,
Make sure they’re overruled.

But, since you are reading this,
Today’s become tomorrow.
Keep in mind that all these words
From yesterday I borrow.

It seems a bit confusing
And I do not like to boast,
But since I wrote tomorrow’s poem,
I will not miss a post.

Still Dark

I wake and glance outside
And see the sky is inky dark.
The buildings that my windows frame
Look menacing and stark.

Yet gradually some lights wink on,
A signal – we’re awake;
And slowly, others join them
And my view’s not so opaque.

I cannot see the people,
Just their beacons in the gloom.
I guess they’re girding for the day,
Not knowing what will loom.

But as I sit and write these words,
The sky tiptoes towards light.
My pre-dawn companeros
Cannot claim the copyright.

But if my fellow early birds
Did glimpse their daybreak view,
I bet they’d think they owned the dawn,
Exactly like I do.

Car Wash

Park your car on city streets –
There is no way around it.
If you’ve parked beneath a tree,
Then surely birds have found it.

If you have escaped the birds,
There’s soot and city dirt.
One glance at your once-shiny car
And oh, your heart will hurt.

So you head out to the car wash,
But, of this I have no doubt,
Before you give your car to them,
Please take your quarters out!

‘Cause even if you try to watch
Your car get soaked and shined,
The thought of being ripped off
Will be foremost on your mind.

The soap and brushes do their job;
The bird poop disappears.
You’ll swear the car looks better than
It’s looked in months or years.

You drive away so happy
Your car’s clean as it can be;
And there’s a spot just waiting for you –
Underneath a tree!

The Morning

In the morning, watch the people
Scurrying about.
Everything is possible –
All destinies in doubt.

You haven’t got a clue
How all the hours will unfold.
No one can predict what good
Or bad news you’ll be told.

There’s hope afloat – it’s in the air
And there on people’s faces.
As the day progresses,
Sometimes all that’s left are traces.

The world is cruel and heartless
And our dreams are squashed and stomped.
It’s much more likely that it’s negatives
With which we’re swamped.

Yet as we first begin our day,
We’ve got an empty slate.
Later on we’ll ponder
What’s presented on our plate.

I really love the morning –
Every one is filled with wonder.
Most often, as the hours go by,
That hope is plowed right under.

My Plants

I gave my plants a haircut.
They looked scraggly and wild;
But if they could express themselves,
I’m sure I’d be reviled.

‘Cause they don’t look much better now.
In truth, they’re looking worse.
Instead of an improvement,
I took two steps in reverse.

The half a dozen plants I own,
Lined on my windowsill,
Are there to add a little green
And so they fit the bill.

But when I do compare them
To all others I have seen,
I realize that the thumbs I have
Are anything but green.

Perhaps I should give up –
Admit it’s all a big mistake.
I’ll ditch my plants and buy instead
Some new ones that are fake.

I know it would be cheating
If I’m sticking to the letter,
But I do think that plastic plants
In my hands, might look better!

Standoff

So I’m in Central Park
On the reservoir track;
With my workout complete,
I was heading on back.

There were puddles galore,
So I stepped to the right;
Not prepared as I stepped
To encounter a fight.

See, the track has these signs
And what they advertise
Is the rule that your walk
Should be counter-clockwise.

There are folks who don’t care,
Some flat out disobey;
And most times I ignore them –
I couldn’t today.

‘Cause a woman in street clothes
With some attitude
Strutted right in my path –
That was way more than rude.

She was on the wrong side,
Not in exercise gear;
Yet her face said – Get outta my way!
I am here!

What I wanted to do,
Now I know it’s not subtle,
Was give her a good shove
Right into a huge puddle.

But instead I said she was wrong,
Then stepped aside.
The only alternative
Was to collide.

Some people are nasty
And have lots of nerve.
Here’s hoping some day they
Get what they deserve.

Take-Out

I really do not understand
Why people take out food,
Though I admit there are some times
I, too, am in the mood.

The food will never taste as good
As when it’s first prepared,
And when you nuke it, it sogs out
And cannot be repaired.

You eat on paper plates or else
The dishes that you own,
And you’ll be interrupted
By the TV or the phone.

When you are finished eating
All that take-it-home cuisine,
You cannot quite relax because
There’s quite a mess to clean.

I much prefer a restaurant
With dim-lit atmosphere.
Somebody serves my food to me
And pours my wine or beer.

The table is already cleared;
Somebody else has cooked.
There is no dust or clutter,
Or at least not where I looked.

When I am done they take my plate
And I don’t wash the dishes.
It’s almost like a fairy tale
When someone gets three wishes.

If I’m not eating out
I would prefer a home-cooked meal;
And since my husband’s quite the chef,
I’ve got the better deal.

Miner Miracle

Sometimes there’s a story
Unexpected in the news.
We’re used to the disasters,
Crime and violence and snafus.

But what’s so rare we possibly
Might not be comprehending,
Is when an almost tragedy
Comes to a happy ending.

The thirty-three Chilean men
Trapped deep inside a mine,
Remained alive below the earth,
Just waiting for a sign.

They rationed what they had to eat
And kept each other strong.
They knew for their survival
That they had to get along.

Despite their dread confinement
They seemed filled with strength and hope.
If it were me, I know that I
Would never ever cope.

Though weeks went by, the world kept watch
As strangers prayed and dreamed;
The promise of a rescue
Was as crazy as it seemed.

Yet yesterday, we held our breath –
Would everyone survive?
We watched transfixed as, one by one,
Each man emerged alive.

A miracle is what it’s called,
But what it’s really been
Is something we so rarely see –
The good guys get to win!

Knowing When

Knowing when to shut your mouth
Is not an easy thing.
Sometimes folks don’t want to hear
The insights you can bring.

There are times it’s better that
Opinions stay inside,
Even when you are convinced
Your view is justified.

So next time you are itching to
Point out someone’s mistake,
Take a breath or count to ten
And keep your thoughts opaque.

Often nothing’s gained
And good intentions can confuse.
By opening your mouth
There might be quite a bit to lose.

The Point

When you’ve got a point to make
You have a lot of choices:
Serious, sarcastic, scathing –
You can pick your voices.

If you choose satirical,
You’ve gotta have some guts,
‘Cause many people you’ll offend –
No ifs or ands or buts.

Tonight I saw a play that really
Nailed the tongue in cheek;
Broaching history in minstrel guise
Was quite unique.

It was a very clever means,
Though some might be defensive,
To show the awful ways that people
Act when they’re offensive.

The goal was reached with song and dance,
For tragedy, so rare;
The audience sure got the point –
And I’m glad I was there.

Jangly

I have an ankle bracelet
That I bought while in Madrid.
I hemmed and hawed but chose to buy it,
And I’m glad I did.

It’s made of bronzish colored beads
With turquoise stones that dangle;
And from each stone there hangs a bell
That when I walk does jangle.

My husband hates the noise it makes;
It does attract attention.
I guess whoever made it
Had in mind just that intention.

I wear it when I’m wandering
Among the city’s crush,
But take it off in places
Where I’d get a glaring “Hush!”

So if I am museum-bound
Or off to see a play,
My noisy anklet stays behind
Until another day.

Its jingling when I walk gives me
A bouncy attitude.
A little jangle’s all it takes
To elevate my mood.

Refrigerator

My friend has a refrigerator,
A choice I’d never pick.
It’s sleek and shiny, stainless steel,
So magnets will not stick.

My fridge is covered, every inch,
With magnet souvenirs.
One glance can tell you where I have
Vacationed through the years.

The magnets serve to hold in place
Some photos I won’t change:
My grown-up children, toddler-age –
I guess that might seem strange.

Yet once I stick a picture there,
It’s permanent, in place,
Reminding me of magic times
Of which it holds a trace.

I add new magnets every year;
The snapshots stay the same.
A current picture will instead
Be mounted in a frame.

The gallery my fridge displays
Has glimpses of the past,
And in my kitchen you can see
Those memories held fast.

John Lennon

John Lennon would be seventy
If he were still alive.
His death is surely not what's made
His legacy survive.

But after all, when we reflect
On Lennon's brief career,
It's natural to ponder
What he'd do if he were here.

Would he appear on Letterman,
With Yoko at his side?
Would he perform with Ringo,
Half the Beatles, glorified?

Perhaps he'd write an opera,
In the style of Elton John;
Or maybe he'd just write and draw,
His music passion gone.

Would he be bald and fat
Or still be hip and mod and cool?
It's possible that teens might even
Scoff and ridicule.

I doubt it, though, but still these thoughts
Pop up inside my head.
We'll never know, but most of us
Are sorry that he's dead.

Pigeons

Pigeons rule the city scene;
They burble, strut and coo.
Admitting that you like them
Would be thought of as taboo.

They leave their droppings everywhere -
No statue goes unmarred;
And they can fly right in your face
If you’re not on your guard.

I’ve heard it said they spread disease,
Some type of plague or rabies.
The only thing I wonder, though,
Is where are pigeon babies?

We never see them in their nests,
Don’t witness their first flights.
We notice them when they’re full-grown,
Descending from some heights.

It really would be quite a coup
And worth a camera’s click,
If someday someone caught on film
A newborn pigeon chick.

Most every creature starts out cute,
At least that’s my perception.
I wish that I could prove that pigeons
Aren’t the exception.

Repeating History

As we learn about the past,
When we read up on history,
We realize lessons learned don’t last
And why becomes a mystery.

Conflicts in the Middle East
Will stay forever heated.
Years of famine and of feast
Are doomed to be repeated.

Prejudice and hatred lead
To battles, war and death;
Enemies and friends both bleed
And sigh at their last breath.

We build memorials to those
Who sacrificed their lives,
And lay a stone, a wreath or rose
For husbands, sons or wives.

If only people could foresee
The future’s thorny path,
Perhaps they’d learn to disagree
Without revenge or wrath.

The world would be a better place,
Quite close to paradise,
If our mistakes we would embrace
And never make them twice.

MetroCard

I used to carry tokens;
They got mixed up with my change.
I kind of miss them in a way –
I guess that might seem strange.

‘Cause now I use a MetroCard.
It seems okay, but then
A lot of times it doesn’t work
And I’ll see “Swipe again.”

I might not have the movement down –
I’m too fast or too slow –
But it’s annoying when I’m in
A hurry, on the go.

My token, once put in the slot,
Was gobbled and digested;
And I was granted passage
Without words, as I’d requested.

But when my card won’t register
And I’m told to reswipe,
I miss my tokens and resent
The MTA card hype.

Sometimes when we step forward
We encounter things we lack;
In my opinion, MetroCards
Result in two steps back.

Jelly Apple

I often bring a jelly apple
In my bag for lunch.
I love its combination
Of both stickiness and crunch.

Sometimes it’s topped with coconut;
Most often, it’s just nuts.
When someone sees me eating one,
Her mouth opens and shuts.

Is that a jelly apple?
I am asked by one in shock.
Wherever did you get it?
They think I turned back the clock.

At first I do explain
That these are from a modern batch.
The jelly’s soft and gooey
So your teeth will not detach.

It’s hard to find the ones I love,
With coating hard and brittle.
When you eat one of those
Your face is covered in red spittle.

But oh, that first determined bite
To crack that outer shell!
If you have sunk your teeth in one,
You know that feeling well.

The candy apples sold in stores
Remind us of our youth,
But nothing’s quite the same today –
And sadly, that’s the truth.

To Thine Own Self...

My friend and I set out today
And we were on a quest;
My son is getting married
So I want to look my best.

This friend’s a make-up connoisseur
So it became her duty
To transform my face, unadorned,
Into a made-up beauty.

I’m not accustomed to the creams
And powders of foundations;
My friend was quite perplexed
At all my petty protestations.

But when the make-up expert
Finished fixing up my face,
I felt that I looked dead
Or not quite of the human race.

I didn’t buy a single thing;
The venture was misguided.
I’ll look just like I always do
Is what I have decided.

And if the camera cracks because
My visage spoils the frame,
I’ll give them my apologies
And I’ll accept the blame.

Keep It To Yourself

When most people ask you,
How are things going?
They really don’t mean it –
They’re happy not knowing.

The best thing to do
Is to say things are fine.
Everyone’s looking
For answers benign.

The time to be honest
Is not on the phone.
Stick only to chit chat;
Leave problems alone.

‘Cause even those friends
Who are loyal and true,
Might feel bad if you kvetch –
There’s not much they can do.

If you feel the need to
Unburden your soul,
Convince yourself you must
Exert self-control.

So keep conversations
Real cheery and light.
Don’t be such a downer;
It’s really not right.

Hang up sounding upbeat
And take a deep breath.
At least you have not
Bored somebody to death.

Raffle

I bought a raffle ticket –
The prize was a vacation.
I guess the winner will have cause
For one big celebration.

My money went to help support
A charity deserving;
But if I win, I think it will
Be quite a bit unnerving.

The trip is to a country
That I’ve visited before.
There are so many places
That I’m dying to see more.

Included is a rental car
Which I’d be loath to drive;
With steering on the wrong side,
I may not return alive.

The dates might interfere with
Other trips that I have planned;
And if I’d turn it down,
Nobody’d really understand.

I know most raffle tickets
Cause the buyers to enthuse,
But if I’m being honest,
Well, I really hope I lose!

Mirrors

“Dad, do you see something here on my face?”
A young daughter asked of her dad.
“Two eyes, mouth and nose,” he replied, and I thought,
For an impromptu answer, not bad.

“No, anything else?” the girl questioned again,
As I listened to their dialogue.
“Well, actually, yes, I do see something else,”
The father responded – “A frog!”

His daughter then giggled, but soon settled down
And repeated her query once more.
She explained what she meant – was there food on her face?
He said back, “That’s what mirrors are for.”

But to me it was plain as an unseeded rye
That she had all the mirror she needed;
And that dad should be glad for in no time at all
His reflection will be superseded.

Too fast she’ll grow up and she won’t want to know
What he sees when he looks at her face.
A mirror is only the first thing she’ll use
To usurp what he thought was his place.

But I kept my mouth shut – let them live in the now
And enjoy their connection, so sweet;
‘Cause years from now they won’t remember at all
How they once made each other complete.

Rubber Boots

All the girls in rubber boots
Before it’s even raining,
Must be hot and sweaty,
Though I doubt they are complaining.

This latest fad is borrowed from
A kindergarten fashion,
But all the colors and designs
Become a teenage passion.

Older women wear them, too,
With peace signs, hearts and flowers.
They can slosh through puddles
In both thunderstorms and showers.

When I see them, how I wish
That I was in cahoots
With those who manufacture
All those must-have rubber boots!

Calories

Stopped at Starbucks – wanted cake.
Boy, that was a huge mistake!
Lemon pound cake, by the slice,
Lookin’ fresh and oh, so nice!
‘Til I glanced upon its ticket:
490 calories – they can stick it!

Listen, I do have a brain:
Eat fat foods and weight you’ll gain;
But shoving numbers in my face
To me, is just a real disgrace.
Let me enjoy my little splurge
When by and by, I get the urge.

I want to eat my cake in peace.
One slice will not make me obese.
Those calorie counts are for the fools
Who disregard the basic rules:
Watch the fattening foods you eat
And on occasion, have a treat.

Then ignore the calorie count,
But if it has a high amount,
Go someplace else – get on your mark –
Where numbers are left in the dark!

The Reason

Gardeners garden for a reason,
Not what you might think.
It’s not to show off what’s in season,
Vanished in a blink.

Of course, they want their plants admired
By all the passersby.
They’d welcome praises they’ve inspired
By how they beautify.

But that’s not why they work the soil;
Instead, what I deduce
Is that it’s worth their hours of toil
To see what they produce.

For they’re the ones who reap rewards
From flowers, bright and lush;
The harmony of nature’s chords
Provides them with a rush.

And if somebody’d compliment
The buds they’ve gently tended,
The kudos would not make a dent
In what had been intended.

The gardeners plant for themselves;
They’re happy, though, with sharing.
They want their flowers off the shelves
And flaunt them if they’re daring.

The writer has the same desire:
He writes for inner pleasure;
And if his writings do inspire,
He’ll gladly share his treasure.

Forgetting What You Read

I read a catchy essay
In The New York Times today,
About how what we read in books
Just up and floats away.

It doesn’t matter what the genre:
Fiction or things real,
For some of us, our brains cannot
Absorb all that we deal.

Even if the book is one
We loved and recommended,
A few months later what we can
Remember’s been suspended.

When someone asks you to recall
A character’s decision,
The blank look on your face
Will likely garner some derision.

If friends remind you of your rave,
You know that, yes, you said it,
And you’re embarrassed to admit
It’s like you never read it.

Perhaps our mental wiring
Is getting frayed and worn,
Or else we’ve used up all the brain cells
Dealt when we were born.

Whatever is the reason
That I have no plot retention,
I’ll keep on reading just as if
Retaining’s my intention.

Open Mike

Poetry is meant to share
And that is why I went
To hear the poets who'd be there
At the Open Mike event.

Though we were few, we all enjoyed
A genial rapport.
Supportive comments kept us buoyed
As we each claimed the floor.

The mood was jovial and kind -
We cheered each other's writing.
Our problems all got left behind -
In words we were delighting.

At first I wished more people showed.
I'd hoped to have a crowd;
But we jelled into comfort mode -
We felt not shy or cowed.

I had a lovely afternoon
And think we'd all agree
We'd like the chance again real soon
To share our poetry.

Decluttering

I’m a pack rat, not a hoarder;
All my junk is in some order.
I’ve a sentimental streak
For items really quite unique.

I save Bar Mitzvah invitations,
None of which are duplications.
I’ve all my children’s notes from school;
I toss their homework, as a rule.

My closet’s filled with clothes so old
It’s lucky they cannot grow mold.
I hate to ditch old towels and sheets;
They make good beach or picnic seats.

Old negatives and photographs
Could be piled higher than giraffes.
Don’t even mention magazines –
I guess collecting’s in my genes.

But still, sometimes I get possessed
And throw things out – you’d be impressed.
Today I cast some things away
To clear space for my new buffet.

I feel so proud, my heart is fluttering
‘Cause I’ve accomplished some decluttering!

Bra Straps

As soon as I could wear a bra,
I learned a crucial lesson:
Never let your bra straps show –
Just keep the people guessin’.

In seventh grade, it shocked us
When the next door teacher, older,
Would flirt with Mr. Feldstein,
Her straps hanging past her shoulder.

“She’s doing it on purpose!”
We all hissed, but didn’t get it.
It opened up my eyes, though,
Since I never did forget it.

I still buy bras that fit me
So they stay beneath my shirt.
I find it strange when women choose
To make their bras overt.

From what I see today, though,
Flaunting bra straps is the style.
I think back to the seventh grade
And can’t resist a smile.

I thought it looked so stupid then
And feel the same today;
I guess young women like to have
A lingerie display.

But women of my generation
Like our bra straps hidden.
Imagination’s all you need
To conjure the forbidden.

One Lone Shoe

Today I noticed one lone shoe,
Forlorn and on its side.
How it ended up that way
I cannot quite decide.

It was a woman’s pump and made
Of shiny patent leather.
It looked brand new and hadn’t time
To bear the brunt of weather.

Perhaps it dropped from someone’s bag
En route to local cobbler;
For if it fell from someone’s foot,
We’d surely spot the hobbler.

I can’t imagine someone running
With a single shoe.
You’d think the balance factor
Would at least provide a clue.

I’ll never know the story
And most people wouldn’t care,
But if that woman tracks her steps,
I hope that shoe’s still there!

Assembling

Have you ever tried assembling
A bookcase or buffet?
Perhaps you were resembling
The way I looked today.

It wasn’t such a pretty sight:
Teeth gritted, dripping sweat;
‘Cause not a thing was going right,
And it’s not finished yet.

The pieces came packed in a crate,
With screws and bolts and nails.
Instructions seemed to be first-rate;
I guess nobody fails.

There’s always an exception, though,
To every single rule,
And struggling, so unlike a pro,
I felt like such a fool.

But gradually, it took some shape;
Each stud fit in each hole.
If you walked in, you’d be agape
To see such self-control.

It isn’t quite together yet –
We took a little break;
But by tomorrow, you can bet
We’ll finish, no mistake.

It really wasn’t all that tough.
Why, anyone can do it!
Just take a breath when things get rough,
And if you mess up – glue it!