Glimpses of the Past

I came across a batch of cards
I hadn't seen in years;
And suddenly, before my eyes,
My past just reappears.

Wedding cards is what they were,
From friends of long ago,
Some of whom remain real close,
While some I barely know.

There were wishes written
By the students I had taught.
Names were unfamiliar,
Though providing food for thought.

Where are all those students now,
Grown-up and teacher-free?
If somebody brought up my name,
Would they remember me?

Some well-wishers left my life;
Others now are dead.
Reading words they wrote back then
Played havoc with my head.

My son is getting married soon,
His cards not yet composed.
I wonder in his future if
Such thoughts will be exposed.

I hope, like me, in thirty years,
He still will feel quite smitten
Though his wedding wishes
By some strangers will be written.

A lifetime passes quickly by,
But glimpses of the past
Remind you both of things to come
And some that do not last.

Parallel

I watched a hawk swoop in the sky,
Which made me stop and think:
All creatures' lives are parallel,
Connected, like a link.

We're all a part of Nature's chain:
We procreate and feed;
And learn unique survival skills,
Depending on our need.

While I shopped at the grocery store
To buy supplies for dinner,
The hawk was on the prowl for food,
His prospects not much thinner.

And sometimes I've seen, in the air,
A baby hawk, instructed
On how to soar and swoop and glide,
Its "playground" unobstructed.

It's not much different from when I
Would coax my toddlers, gently,
To take their first steps, watching
As they followed me, intently.

That hawk and I both represent
Two beings who survive
By using skills and instincts
To make sure we stay alive.

A million other creatures
Do the same, where e'er they dwell;
We rarely think about them,
Though our lives are parallel.

Behind Closed Doors

I read about a family fighting
Over an apartment;
As far as messed-up families go,
They'd lead in that department.

It turns out that horrific things
Took place where they resided,
And now a day in court is due
For siblings so divided.

The part I found most strange
Was the apartment's posh address;
Behind the fancy doorman doors,
The family was a mess.

They lived across from Central Park,
And it would be audacious
To think that only joy exists
In co-ops rich and spacious.

For screwed-up families abound
In wealthy homes and poor;
You can't predict what you will find
Behind somebody's door.

You might pass an address and think,
They've really got it made;
But often when you learn the truth,
You wouldn't want to trade.

Visiting Afar

Sometimes a journey,
Though tiring and long,
Gets you to where
You are sure you belong.

The distance you travel
To visit a friend
Is worth all the effort
You’ve had to extend.

‘Cause when you’re together,
The time seems to melt;
And this reaffirms
Every good vibe you felt.

We should pay our thanks to
The roads that do lead
To the home of a friend;
They are good roads, indeed.

The Move

My son threw out his dishes;
No longer does he need them.
He also tossed away old books;
He has no time to read them.

He has no room so it makes sense,
But I can’t understand it.
It’s just the way that things worked out;
It isn’t like he planned it.

What I don’t get is why discard
An object that’s not broken?
The memories that it contains
Might still remain, unspoken.

And if you really have no need
For things you are replacing,
Pass them on to someone else
Whose life they can be gracing.

I took the dishes and the mugs,
The forks, the spoons, the knives;
I’ll donate them so they’ll be used
In other people’s lives.

Perhaps my sentimental streak
Is really out of whack;
My son just moved and I’m the one
With dishes to unpack!

Email Blues

For years I had no email;
It did not yet exist.
In some ways life was easier –
I knew not what I’d missed.

Yet now that I’m accustomed
To my daily email fix,
It drives me crazy when
It’s unresponsive to my clicks.

“Loading” takes forever,
And “sending” seems to freeze;
So my frustration level
Seems to ratchet by degrees.

“We can’t retrieve your data.”
“It seems there is an error.”
The way I bang the keyboard,
My PC must shrink in terror.

My husband mentions cookies;
I don’t know what he means.
My email is affected
By the sweet tooth of machines?

Whatever was the problem,
It’s finally corrected;
And all my prior messages
Have now been resurrected.

The thing I find amazing
Is how we become dependent
On something that, to technophobes,
Is really quite transcendent.

The next time AOL
Has got me fuming in frustration,
I’ll hearken to my TM days
And try some meditation.

Word of the Day

The word of the day pops up there on my screen;
It’s long been a part of my daily routine.
Most words I recognize, some I do not;
Others are words I once knew, but forgot.
I don’t really care ‘bout the word’s etymology;
Nor do I think Webster needs an apology.
All I’m concerned with is its definition
And if it’s pronounced as per my intuition.
But sometimes a word appears I’ve never heard
And the way it sounds strikes me as rather absurd,
Like today, when the current word is poetaster;
Each time that I say it could be a disaster.
It looks like the accent is really misplaced
And the ending should rhyme with the vowel in “taste;”
But the word of the day person, the so-called master,
Is saying it should be said, thus: POH-uh-tass-ter.
I doubt many folks who see this word would know it;
Its meaning? Ah hah! “An inferior poet!”
I hope that’s not me; if so, what a cheap shot
To be nailed by a word most would see and say, “What?”

Alternate Ending:
I hope that’s not me; if so, that’s just my luck
To be nailed by a word most would say, “What the ….?”

The Boardwalk

Walking on the boardwalk
As it parallels the beach
Makes a satisfying afternoon
Within your reach.

The tangy air, the crashing waves,
The gulls that swoop and holler;
The salty breeze that counteracts
The sweat beneath your collar.

On your feet or on a bike
You move in one direction;
Going slowly gives you time
For beach-inspired reflection.

If you are accompanied,
It’s great for conversation;
Since you’re near the shore
You won’t forget your destination.

Pick a spot and turn around
To where you first began;
You can claim some exercise
And possibly a tan.

But the best of all the things
I have been busy stating,
Is that when you do return,
The boardwalk will be waiting.

Tornado Watch

The radio announcer
Said there might be a tornado;
Since I am a Manhattanite,
I’m really not afraido.

Though I’ve sometimes come across
Scary weather such as hail,
My twister viewing’s limited
To watching Dorothy Gale.

If I lived in Kansas
Or some other mid-west state,
Perhaps I’d take precautions
And not leave it up to fate.

But here in New York City,
I don’t plan to worry long;
I’m pretty sure the weatherman
Has got his info wrong.

The Lure

In ancient Greek mythology,
The Sirens lured you in;
And when you realized what they’d done,
All you felt was chagrin.

In modern life, the TV set
Performs a likewise function;
It sits right there where boredom
And inertia have their junction.

I spent a week without TV
And didn’t really miss it;
When you’re not in temptation range,
It’s easy to dismiss it.

But when, in your proximity,
The television looms,
It draws you, like the Sirens’ song;
Your focus it consumes.

You’re powerless to break its spell;
You simply can’t resist.
You long to run away and live
Where TV’s don’t exist.

But in this world, the challenge is
To give in just a bit;
Watch an SVU or two,
Then shut it off and quit.

It’s possible, I guarantee,
Especially in summer;
You flip the channels and it seems
Each show is quite a bummer.

So walk away, do something else,
And break that Sirens’ hold,
At least until the fall
When the new season is unrolled!

Flutterby

I once heard tell that flutterby
Is what they called a butterfly.
It seems a better choice of names
Than that which it at present claims.

For as it flits in flowery fields,
I'm sure each fellow insect yields
The right of way, for shouldn't duty
Be to acquiesce to beauty?

If you're lucky and observe
A flutterby in graceful swerve,
You may be tempted then to utter,
What's this got to do with butter?

Could an error, ordinary,
Have connected wings with dairy?
We may never know the why,
So I'll stick with flutterby.

If It Ain't Broke

When's the time you should replace
A fridge that's kind of leaking?
All the food is still kept cold
And nothing's really reeking.

So a puddle greets us
On the bottom shelf each week,
And force is needed when you shut the door -
You can't be meek.

Some thirty years ago this fridge
Was likely at its peak;
My husband wants to head to Lowe's -
A new one he does seek.

But I'm the missing paddle
As he ventures up the creek;
I think that our refrigerator
Really is unique.

It's still alive and I know
What it'd say if it could speak:
You're a fool to toss me out -
I'm almost an antique!

Inner Workings

Sometimes you are made aware
Of how your insides work.
It's really quite enlightening,
Like watching coffee perk.

Perhaps you notice as your heart
Accelerates its pounding;
You note the switching of its gears,
And realize it's astounding.

Or else your stomach starts to churn
To aid in your digestion;
You marvel at its complex moves,
Completed without question.

At times you rack your memory
And wonder at its lapses;
Remembering biology,
You know it's missed synapses.

Blood is flowing in your veins;
Cells might be dividing.
Sometimes far below the surface,
Cancer might be hiding.

Everything inside proceeds
And we don't have a say;
Automatic pilot's on
And mostly stays that way.

This is how it's always been
And will remain, eternal.
We are at the mercy of
The power of the internal.

Feeling the Breeze

When the day is boiling hot,
Like ninety-five degrees,
Sometimes there's a saving grace
That's natural, like a breeze.

Air-conditioning is not
A thing at which you'd sneeze,
Yet any day I'd much prefer
The pleasure of a breeze.

If you are fortunate and land
Amidst a grove of trees,
Just stretch out and relax yourself
And give in to the breeze.

Though lemonade and cool iced tea
In summer may appease,
I'd sacrifice my thirst to get
A little taste of breeze.

So whether you are near a park
Or some place else to please,
Make sure that you step outside
And feel the soothing breeze.

'Cause when the leaves stop blowing
And heat brings you to your knees,
Retreat into the A/C air
Until the breeze reprise.

Three Bucks

On my morning walk today
I had a nice surprise;
Three bucks stood all in a row,
Right there before my eyes.

If I mentioned these three bucks
While I walked in Central Park,
You would most likely misconstrue
What I'd meant by that remark.

But since I'm in the country
I think it should be quite clear
That the bucks I do refer to
Are majestic antlered deer.

They were munching on some leaves,
But they paused to check me out,
Then returned to graze some more;
I'd bored them, there's no doubt.

The country place where I reside
Now will shoot to thin the herd,
Which, although it saves the plants,
Is a rule I find absurd.

So to spot a deer at all,
Since their population's dwindled,
Is a rare and special treat
'Cause I usually feel swindled.

In the past I'd notice lots,
But now often I see none;
Many deer looked not at me,
But instead right at a gun.

Yet today I had a treat
'Cause, despite a rule that sucks,
I saw three who got away,
Worth much more than just three bucks!

Litterati

I really wish there were somebody
Who could nail the litterati.
Maybe those who access Twitter
Could point out those folks who litter.

Here’s a topic for some Tweets –
Some trash I noticed on the streets:
Paper plates from pizza places;
Wrappers smeared with candy traces.

Skinny covers once from straws,
Nasty notes that gave me pause;
Crumpled packs from cigarettes,
Baggies filled with poop from pets.

Water bottles, now depleted;
Store receipts from sales completed.
Many balled-up, wrinkled tissues
Filled, no doubt, with slimy issues.

Yogurt cups where stuff congeals;
Peach pits and banana peels.
Surely there are things I missed;
This is just a partial list.

In college one of my professors
Used to challenge the transgressors.
Not a great idea today,
Yet somehow litterbugs should pay.

So if you spy one in the act,
Grab your phone and quick, react:
Snap a photo – grant him fame.
Perhaps we can clean up with shame!

Handicapped Parking

A cop was giving tickets
On an avenue near me.
It was early in the day;
She was on a ticket spree.

But I noticed that some cars
Were exempt from a citation.
I was curious until
I unearthed an explanation.

For each car had a placard
In the windshield which declared
That the driver of the car
Was in some manner impaired.

So I questioned the cop,
“Would a handicapped card
Let you park where you want
And the rules disregard?”

“That’s the law,” she replied;
And I think it’s not fair,
For a handicap shouldn’t
Let you park anywhere.

In a mall or a lot,
When you’ll be a few hours,
Then a person should park
Where his placard empowers.

But on streets in the city,
He should not have the right
To ignore all the rules
And park free, day and night.

Do I feel for the handicapped?
Surely, I do;
And I hope my complaining
You won’t misconstrue.

But by giving carte blanche,
Things are rife for abuse;
I saw ten cars miss tickets,
All with one excuse.

I am grateful I don’t need
A handicapped sign;
But I question the way the law
Crosses the line.

A Cop and his Horse

A trailer for the mounted police
Was parked by the museum.
I knew that it would make my day
If I could only see ‘em.

The back door opened and I saw
A cop real busy sweeping;
With broom in hand, he seemed to be
Adept at his housekeeping.

When next I looked, the horse was out;
An officer was grooming.
The horse enjoyed it, or at least
That’s what I am assuming.

At last the policeman hopped aboard
And onward they did trot.
It made me think of Wyatt Earp
And cowboys we forgot.

I love an unexpected glimpse
Of life from long ago.
It shakes things up and wakes us
From the current status quo.

I tried to picture living then
When everyone, of course,
Would travel from Point A to B
Upon a trotting horse.

I think it would have been real nice,
Though cumbersome and slow;
The past appears appealing,
But reality says, “Whoa!”

Still, I was glad I had the chance
To see the mounted police
Take off downtown to do their part
To guarantee the peace.

Street Sweeper Dance

If you park in the city,
Using alternate side,
You are out of your mind –
That cannot be denied.

But still, it’s not every day
One has the chance
To participate in
New York’s Street Sweeper Dance.

For the east side rendition,
(The west has its own)
You park for a time
In the no-parking zone.

That side of the street
Will turn legal real soon,
So you sit in your car
Until half-after noon.

You read or you text
Or you stare into space;
That’s the price that you pay
For a free parking place.

But if, while you’re waiting,
A sweeper comes by,
You must move your car;
You’re compelled to comply.

So the saga begins,
As each car does advance:
Cross the street, double-park,
Do the Street Sweeper Dance.

As the sweeper goes by,
You return to your spot;
And you hope everyone
Gets back in the right slot.

On occasion, someone commits
Parking abuse,
And steals someone’s spot –
Then all hell does break loose.

But today, we all made it
Back into our row,
The urban equivalent
Of do-si-do.

Stand-Up

Watching comics do their shtick,
And generally succeeding,
Makes it seem like it’s not hard,
But that is so misleading.

Picture being on that stage,
The audience awaiting;
You want to hear them laugh until
They’re hyperventilating.

You have to reel them in like fish;
They’re looking to get caught.
They’ve paid their money – now they want
To see what you have brought.

You take a breath and dive right in
And hope for a reaction;
And if you’re lucky there’ll be laughter –
Ah, what satisfaction!

But if you bomb, you’re stuck up there
And time must seem to stretch;
You can’t exactly march off
In the middle of your sketch.

As someone in the audience,
I marvel at their nerve;
And think that they should get
The accolades that they deserve.

For what they try to do’s so tough
Their pulses must be pumping;
I’ve heard it said that stand-up
Makes a cinch of bungee-jumping!

Hanging a Picture

Today I hung six pictures
In a row above my bed;
They look like soldiers at attention,
Staring straight ahead.

They’re postcards that we bought in Spain,
All framed in matching black;
And they’re the last things that I’ll see
Before I hit the sack.

We bought them in a Gaudi house;
They’re Deco-ish and bright.
As soon as we both spotted them,
We knew they were just right.

It was a challenge making sure
That they were lined up straight.
I used a ruler, so each measure
I could calculate.

Most often, when I’m hanging things,
I eyeball and I guess;
And if you look behind each frame
The wall is quite a mess.

Aside from pencil marks and scuffs,
You’ll count a dozen holes.
It looks like someone quite insane
Was manning the controls.

But this time I was more composed,
Determined not to fail;
The end result is pretty good,
So patience did prevail.

Of course, they aren’t perfect
But I’m pleased as I can be;
They’re in their frames and on the wall
And all because of me!

Accomplishment

When you finally tackle
Something you have been delaying,
It seems like you’re deserving
Of a prize or some bouqueting.

It’s not enough to feel fulfilled;
You want some accolades.
Acknowledgement will do –
You aren’t asking for parades.

Today I got a few things done
That were way overdue;
I don’t know why I’d put them off,
But now I’ve broken through.

So I feel like I do deserve
Some kudos and some praise;
What I’ve accomplished in one day
Might cause your eyes to glaze.

But to a champion procrastinator
I’m impressed
That my to-do list has gone down
And I’m not all that stressed.

For those of you more organized,
Who do things right away,
I’m envious ‘cause you must feel
Like I do every day.

But since, for me, this feeling
Isn’t part of my routine,
I’d like to hear some fanfare
Or at least a tambourine!

Con Ed

There’s a giant dug-up hole
That takes up my whole block;
If you’re not from the city,
Well, it might give you a shock.

But for city dwellers, such a sight
Won’t cause a second glance;
They’ll recognize that Con Ed’s claimed
Another huge expanse.

They’ll say that gas is leaking
Then usurp ten parking spots,
And then proceed to drill so loud
Your brain will be in knots.

Their orange cones will stake their turf,
Like dogs who mark their trees;
And then the workers all converge,
In vests, to shoot the breeze.

I’m sure they’re doing something real,
But no one knows quite what;
My city paranoia
Used to think it was a plot.

I’ve changed my mind, though – now I’m sure
Their job’s hard as can be;
‘Cause if they hear me grumble,
That’s the end of my A/C!

Getting Rid Of

What’s the point of holding onto
Things from long ago?
Wish I had the answer, but
The truth is, I don’t know.

If you are a pack rat,
And I’m sure some folks relate,
You always plan to throw things out –
But at a later date.

Would I be much more fulfilled
If my mom hadn’t ditched
The detritus with which my childhood
Long ago was stitched?

If I still had each doll and book
And random souvenir,
Would the roots of all my angst
Be sparkling crystal clear?

Of course the answer isn’t “yes,”
So why do I insist
On keeping all my grown kids’ stuff,
That never would be missed?

Every notebook, game and toy
Is lovingly preserved;
Despite suggestions to unload,
My mind’s remained unswerved.

Yet with new carpeting to come,
I’d like to make things fresh.
Can I retain things in my head
But ditch them in the flesh?

I’ve heard that if I take the plunge
It will be liberating;
So in the coming weeks
I will spend time deliberating.

If I decide to give things up,
I know I’ll be upset;
And by the way, I wish I had
My favorite doll, Ginette…

Welcome!

I got a brand-new welcome mat;
The old one was unraveling.
It’s always nice to step onto
A welcome after traveling.

The new one’s made of bristles
And it’s meant for trapping dirt;
A simple brush will do the trick,
No pressure to exert.

It has a colorful design
Of brightly tinted squares,
With “Welcome” printed center-stage,
If you’re caught unawares.

I like to step inside a door
Where “Welcome” is displayed;
It makes me think I’ve found a place
Where friendships might be made.

So if you come to visit me,
You’ll see that mat and smile;
And know that if you come inside,
I hope you’ll stay a while.

The New Yorker

Reading The New Yorker
Requires lots of time;
If sometimes you don’t finish,
You’re my partner in this crime.

The articles are lengthy,
Demanding of attention;
The editors, I do believe,
Should do an intervention.

The cartoons are so clever,
And most of them I get;
The poems I don’t understand
And nor do you, I’ll bet.

I’m often several weeks behind,
But that’s okay with me;
Just the fact that I subscribe
Gives me a pedigree.

For reading The New Yorker
Gives you automatic class;
So come on, New York Magazine –
‘Cause we can kick your ass!

Sharing Photos

When cameras functioned using film,
And we were on vacation,
I’d wait to get that perfect shot
In just the right location.

Each picture had to be exact
‘Cause film should not be wasted,
And when they were developed
Into albums they’d be pasted.

I’d often have some copies made
To send to some relations.
This was the way that things were done
For several generations.

But now that film is so passé,
We snap hundreds of poses,
Never really thinking of
The burden this imposes.

We post the pictures on our screens
And simply access “Send” -
So all your friends and relatives
See scenes that never end.

Do you think they care to see
In front of every view
A lovely image ruined with
A close-up shot of YOU?

It’s nice to share your memories,
I’m normal on that score,
But I think the recipients
Might like the old way more.

Fourth of July

Happy Birthday, USA!
It’s time to celebrate.
Let’s eat until we almost burst,
And then refill our plate.

Hot dog contests bring the crowds,
In awe of their techniques;
Backyard chefs tend barbecues
As sweat pours down their cheeks.

Ice-cold beers are stacked on ice
And tables we embellish
With all accoutrements we need
Like mustard, Heinz, and relish.

Corn on cobs and cole slaw, too;
Potato salad, chips,
And veggies to assuage our guilt,
Unless we try the dips.

Watermelon, fruit piled high,
Brownies, cookies, cakes:
Food like this is de rigueur,
No matter what it takes.

Then the fireworks begin:
The dazzle, spark, and noise
Create a patriotic show
Each spectator enjoys.

We rarely think about the war
That helped make us a nation;
Instead we focus on the fact
That we are on vacation.

So let us fire up those grills
And swig our frosty brews,
Remembering the patriots,
So glad they didn’t lose.

For had the Redcoats triumphed,
We’d have quite a different scene:
Not barbecue, but kidney pie
And crumpets with the queen!

Book Sale

Today was the annual book sale;
The library's cleaning house.
Six books for five dollars -
No way one could grouse.

Paperbacks just a quarter,
VHS fifty cents;
Even with both our arms full,
It won't be a big expense.

We tarried an hour, searching
Through boxes arranged so neatly;
Like raccoons who root through trash cans,
We pawed through each pile completely.

Some treasures were there, just hoping
That someone who knew their worth
Would claim them and delve inside for
The magic there to unearth.

My husband chose factual hardbooks:
Biography and lots of history;
I picked one how-to on quilting,
And softbooks of fiction and mystery.

We each left the book sale quite happy,
Delighted with our souvenirs.
I can't wait to tackle my pile -
As soon as I finish last year's!

Fowl Territory

Saw a Mama turkey
Running 'cross the road,
Followed by at least eight chicks:
'Twas quite the mother lode.

Traffic slowed to let them pass;
They really were in luck.
If just one driver looked away,
Disaster might have struck.

The most amazing thing to me
Is Mom was in the lead;
There was no way she could be sure
Success was guaranteed.

She took a chance that all her brood
Would be so close behind
That all would make it safely;
That is confidence, defined.

Or else she wasn't all that bright,
But maybe that's not fair.
I'm judging her in human terms
Which might not quite compare.

Still, I was glad I had the chance
To see that turkey clan;
And gladder yet to know
That when they saw the cars, they ran!

Old News

I like to read the newspapers
In order, by the date;
And since I'm always far behind,
The current one can wait.

I read about a sports event
That's long had its conclusion,
But since I listen to the news,
There's really no confusion.

Even though I know the score,
I still can read about it.
There's so much detail I can learn,
I couldn't do without it.

I'm late to news of scandals
Or political unrest;
And sometimes just as folks have healed,
I'm newly quite distressed.

Discoveries that hit page one
I'll read of two weeks later.
I'm just too busy to keep up,
Not a procrastinator.

My friends and family find it weird,
Don't get what I'm about;
If they don't read the news each day,
They throw the paper out.

But even when I am away,
The papers sit there waiting;
And reading them when I return
Is cause for celebrating.

I'm skimming stories currently -
Don't give me any clues -
About the World Cup soccer -
I hope USA won't lose!