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!

Charity

If you could donate money
Like Melinda and Bill Gates,
I wonder how you would decide
Who gets what on their plates.

Would you choose education
Or research for a disease?
Would you divvy up the funds
To various degrees?

Museums always need donations,
Hospitals as well;
Agencies that have the poor
Among their clientele.

Libraries and nursing homes,
Pantries needing food;
Lots of people who’d respond
With so much gratitude.

Though most of us are not endowed
With riches on that scale,
That doesn’t mean the urge we have
To give should not prevail.

We give within our means if we
Are so inclined to give;
It’s good to help the people who
Are struggling to live.

You do not have to be Bill Gates
To have a little part
In helping things improve a bit –
You only need some heart.

Driving on the BQE*

If you have ever driven
On the awful BQE,
You’ll know when I describe its woes,
You will not disagree.

There’s always some construction,
Therefore shutting down the lanes;
And they don’t care if traffic jams
Or how much one complains.

The road is filled with bumps and holes
And trucks of every size,
So when an accident occurs,
It causes no surprise.

I used to drive the BQE
Each day en route to work,
And now it’s out of my routine,
A real retirement perk!

Yet sometimes I cannot avoid
Returning to this road,
And when I’m there, I’m back at once
To sensory overload.

The noise, the ruts, the orange cones,
The narrow lanes that merge,
The massive semis rumbling by
All put me on the verge.

I made it through today
With just a modicum of grief,
But knowing I can stay away
Is such a huge relief!

* Brooklyn-Queens Expressway

Scrabble

At a pleasant Sunday picnic
On a Central Park expanse,
Someone said, “Let’s play some Scrabble”
And I jumped up at the chance.

It’s been years since my last challenge
But I thought I’d take a shot.
My opponent, in a teasing way, said,
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

We chose our seven tiles and
Imagine my surprise,
When I looked at seven consonants
Right before my eyes.

I had to pass, though I was first,
And missed that double score;
But soon I came up with some words
I’ve never used before.

‘Cause hiding in our brains, there is
Some knowledge we once learned,
And on occasions we get paid
The dividends we’ve earned.

A word or fact will just appear
We didn’t know we knew;
And as to how and when we heard it,
We don’t have a clue.

On one turn I scored sixty-two!
I was as pleased as punch.
Yet still I didn’t think I’d win –
My numbers wouldn’t crunch.

My challenger was slick and smart.
He maximized each point;
But I was not too far behind
And felt not out of joint.

We played for hours – still I felt
It ended much too soon.
I lost, but have to say
I had a lovely afternoon.

A Slow Fast

Despite the name, a fast is slow.
It’s oxymoronish, you know.
You watch the minutes ticking by;
Your hunger you cannot deny.

Your brain begins to formulate
Thoughts of food piled on your plate;
Conjured pictures from your past
Of edibles to break the fast:

Pickled herring, salty lox,
Noodle pudding that just rocks!
Seeded bagels, sliced-up cheese,
Whitefish plattered just to please.

Cole slaw, salads, eggs, tabouli,
And desserts to make you drooly.
Naturally, there’s beer or wine,
Scotch or vodka – all are fine.

Candies, nuts, and more dessert;
Loose the buttons on your skirt.
Fruit and coffee, strong and hot –
Lots of choices we have got.

Images like these appear
To taunt me, but I’ll persevere.
I’ve come this far – I’ll last, I’m sure.
I’ve only got three hours more!

Yahrzeit

Tonight we light the candles,
Honoring the dead.
In many cases, I sure wish
That they were here instead.

The kindling of these candles
Is a ritual I follow;
Unlike many others, this one’s
Meaningful, not hollow.

Each candle represents someone
We loved who is deceased;
And in the lighting, memories
Are dredged up and released.

It’s really an acknowledgement
That after someone’s gone,
We never will forget that life;
The memory lives on.

It’s comforting for us to think
That once our time has passed,
Somebody will remember us;
Our legacy will last.

So as I watch the candle burn,
Each flicker of its flame
Connects me to the person
Who helped form what I became.

I owe a debt to those whose branches
Share my family tree,
And hope someday that somebody
Will do the same for me.

Behind the Door

Insistent banging from the hallway
Made me venture out,
As, curious, I had to know
What was that noise about?

I saw some people gathered ‘round
A nearby neighbor’s door:
The super, other neighbors, cops –
I figured out what for.

An older woman, sweet but frail,
Was out of touch, friends said;
So they were breaking down her door
To see if she was dead.

I’d spoken to her many times,
Most often, on the street;
But also by the elevator,
Where we’d sometimes meet.

She used a walker or a cane
And loved to go outside.
I thought about her spunk –
And then her death was verified.

That’s how it goes – one day you’re here,
The next day you have passed.
You never know which conversation
Might just be your last.

It gives you pause and makes you think
That life is surely fleeting,
And how much time we waste on thoughts
Inane and self-defeating.

How quickly, though, this knowledge
Disappears and leaves instead
The fantasy we’ll never be
The one who ends up dead.

Long Sleeve Day

I left the house this morning,
And felt a little chilled.
Remembering this summer,
Believe me, I was thrilled.

But still, after a block or two,
I was a bit distressed
‘Cause in my skirt and t-shirt,
I was slightly underdressed.

It still is summer, after all,
And so I did believe
That I’d be fine out in the street
Without a longer sleeve.

I swore I’d not complain a bit
Once all that heat had passed,
And I was happy to be cold
And hope that it will last.

Yet still, I shouldn’t walk around
With arms goose-bumped and bare,
Not when my drawers are bursting with
Long sleeves for me to wear.

And so I went back home and changed
Without too much delay,
Delighted to attire myself
For this, a long sleeve day.

Politicus Interruptus

The phone rings, interrupting me;
I stop what I am doing.
I rush to answer, wondering
Whose number I am viewing.

I pick the phone up – there’s a pause
And then a voice begins…
“Vote for So & So! Your vote
Will guarantee he wins!”

The politician running
Sometimes calls to make the plea:
“It’s urgent that you go to vote –
Be sure and vote for me!”

It’s so important, that this call
Might interrupt your dinner.
I do not really care at all,
As long as I’m the winner.

I thought the no-call list I signed
Would stop such calls as these,
But during an election
Rules are bent to such degrees.

Annoying as it was to be
Bombarded in the mail,
I’d take a pamphlet over
Any phone call, without fail.

So I implore you candidates
To cease and to desist.
Your pre-election phone calls
Only get this voter pissed!

Insomnia

I often wake at 2 AM
And can’t get back to sleep,
For anxious thoughts are in pursuit
Of cracks in which to seep.

They hover near my bed
With their intentions very plain:
Wait until I’m half-awake,
Then dive into my brain.

As soon as they have found their mark,
They torture, taunt and tease.
Nothing I can do can drive them off
Or else appease.

I try to think of pleasant things;
I hum words to a song.
I count or chant a mantra
But these tricks do not last long.

I listen to my husband’s breath,
Such rhythmic puffs of air.
I envy him such soothing sleep
But think it’s so unfair.

I know that in the scheme of things
My woes could be much worse.
Conjuring such images
Helps make my thoughts disperse.

But often it takes hours
So when waking with the light,
I groggily arise, exhausted
From my sleepless night.

If you don’t have such demons lurking
And concocting schemes,
Appreciate your rest – to some
It’s harder than it seems.

Cancelled

I was going to a picnic
In the park this afternoon,
But the weatherman’s prediction
Made it seem not opportune.

Of course, it’s nicer in the sun.
Today’s got lots of clouds;
But probably the park will not be
Overrun by crowds.

It’s almost three o’clock and yet
It hasn’t rained a drop.
Still, a downpour might have started,
Not inclined to stop.

I understand the change in plans,
But sometimes it’s in vain.
The picnic’s set for one week hence –
I hope it doesn’t rain!

Dinner Out

When you’re stressed or bored and hungry,
And you’re in a good-time drought,
Put your shoes on, leave the house
And treat yourself to dinner out.

Sometimes it requires an effort
Just to get your feet to move,
But when you are in a restaurant,
You will feel your mood improve.

Sit outdoors if Nature’s friendly;
Order first a glass of wine.
Take your time – peruse the menu;
All your worries seem benign.

Sip and chat and dine real slowly,
Savor every single taste.
Every minute in a restaurant
Helps to get that stress erased.

It’s worth every single penny
When you dine out for a meal.
Factor in the stress you’re losing
And you’ll see it’s quite a deal!

Temple

Today I went to temple
And I heard the ancient prayers.
Since I skipped it yesterday,
Let's see how this compares.

I had to dress up - that's a drag -
And struggle just to follow
Words I couldn't read or those
Translations that rang hollow.

I did enjoy some rituals
Familiar from my youth,
And felt the tug of Jewishness
If I admit the truth.

The Torah with its silver bells,
Connecting to the past;
And naturally, the joy revealed
In every shofar blast.

Yet still, I grew impatient;
My attention kept on shifting.
My mind was in another place,
Unfettered, free and drifting.

I'm glad I went to services,
My family by my side;
But once a year's enough, I think,
To keep me satisfied.

I'll honor my traditions
In the ways that I hold dear,
With family, friends and special foods
And temple once a year.

Prayers

I took my prayers to the park today
And skipped the morning service.
Since I do not quite believe,
This doesn’t make me nervous.

When growing up, this holiday
Was always spent in shul,
Showing off your brand-new clothes
Too good to wear to school.

The readings droned on endlessly;
We sat and stood and sat.
I never questioned being there;
I went and that was that.

But now it’s my decision
And today I made my choice.
I’m sure the prayers were chanted
But without my added voice.

I took my ruminations with me
While I did my walk;
Pondering what I would hear
In my old rabbi’s talk.

I felt a part of nature;
I observed ‘neath sky and tree.
I know that all religious folk
Would cluck and disagree.

But we all do what we must do
To balance joy and sorrow.
Today I prayed in Central Park –
I’ll go to shul tomorrow.

First Day of School

Think back and remember
That first day of school.
You planned what to wear
To ensure you’d look cool.

You had your supplies,
Pencils sharpened and new,
And hoped you’d succeed
In your new class debut.

You’d gone to bed early,
Feared nightmares’ cruel harm,
And woke up with butterflies
As your alarm.

You had a good breakfast
And set off, in doubt
That your new surroundings
Would really work out.

Yet most of the time
That first day was all right.
You conquered your demons,
Got over your fright.

Each first day we all shared
Some nerves as a feature.
I know I sure did,
Although I was the teacher!

Antiques

Driving down the road we passed
A shop that said “Antiques.”
It contained some treasures that
An antique lover seeks:

Rocking chairs with seats of cane,
Plates of blue-toned glass,
Books and tools and jewelry,
All things on which I’d pass.

Toys and dolls and cooking pots,
Radios and frames,
And some unfamiliar things
For which I had no names.

Still, it’s fun to sift and browse;
Nostalgia plays its part.
We’re reminded of a time
These trifles do impart.

So we might splurge to recreate
A moment in our past
That, though it’s gone, has left behind
A relic that will last.

An antiques store encourages
Some pleasant reminiscing.
Who knew that flowered sugar bowl
Was just what we were missing?

Labor Day

On Labor Day, few people work -
Ironic, I would say.
The day to honor laborers
Is spent on ease and play.

We celebrate time off from work;
We barbecue and rest.
Three days respite from the job
Sure helps to get unstressed.

On other days we toil and sweat.
We must be on the clock;
And those who claim they hate time off
Are handing you a crock.

So please relax this Labor Day.
Indulge in joy and mirth;
Unless your labor is the kind
That ends in giving birth!

Taste Buds

I love berries, any type;
My husband hates them all.
He can scarf down spicy food,
Which makes my skin just crawl.

I love lemon pie and lime;
My daughter hates them both.
She's a chocoholic and
Would swear it under oath.

I like chocolate, too, but it
Would not be my first pick.
I prefer vanilla;
Coffee also does the trick.

My son likes coffee flavor, too,
But soda is his drink.
My daughter likes her Coke as well,
But I don't share that link.

It's quite amazing that my family,
Spouse and my-loins-sprung,
Can savor flavors varied
'Cause of taste buds on the tongue.

I guess what makes the world go round
And keeps us interlaced
Is that there's such diversity
In matters such as taste.

It's good that we like different things.
I'm sure you would agree
So there is lots of lemon pie
And berries left for me!

At the Market

At the market, walk the aisles,
Search for things you need.
Naturally, you'll buy some things you don't -
That's guaranteed.

Store employees offer samples -
Come and have a taste!
Even if the stuff looks gross,
It will not go to waste.

For everybody strolling by
Will go for something free;
Add a coupon and, whoo hoo!
You're thrilled as you can be.

Get in line, unload your cart
And watch each item scan;
Pay with credit, then proceed
To load your mini-van.

Shopping in America
Is both a chore and treat.
A lot of effort we expend
So we have what to eat.

Booze

When I want to have a drink,
My first choice would be beer;
But if my glass is filled with wine,
That, too, would disappear.

Of the hard stuff, only one
Goes down real smooth and slick:
Tequila is my drink of choice –
The others make me sick.

Keep your scotch or gin or rye,
Vodka, bourbon, rum;
But to the agave plant,
I’ll gratefully succumb.

My dinner wouldn’t feel complete
Without a beer or wine,
And margueritas at a party,
I would not decline.

It really does amaze me, though,
I don’t know what to think,
When I encounter people who
Have no desire to drink.

They’ll stick to soda (yuck!)
And they abstain from alcohol;
Their reasons for avoidance
Sound to me quite off the wall.

I drink in moderation
And I love the drinks I choose.
To all you soda sippers, I say:
Let us toast – with booze!

Unpacking

After a trip, comes the time to unpack.
For such a chore, you don’t require a knack.
Just toss all the dirty clothes into a pile;
Sort colors and white things if that is your style.

Return to your drawers all that you didn’t wear;
If you’re not like me, then such items are rare.
Since I can’t decide what I’ll need when away,
I often pack extras to get through each day.

Back home, to the closet, these things get returned;
They’re jury, I’m judge and for now, they’re adjourned.
The same goes for earrings and bracelets and such;
Unpacking’s much quicker if you don’t pack much.

But if you’re like I am, your suitcase is crammed;
It may take a while ‘til it gets unjammed.
Just take a deep breath and remain right on track,
And soon enough, you’ll put that empty case back.

Of course, when you’ve finished this bothersome chore,
You’ll realize your husband unpacked hours before!

Trapped!

People bemoan the fate of the cows
And chickens that humans consume;
Often the lives of these creatures aren't much -
From birth, they are headed for doom.

Yet what of the lobsters and mussels and clams?
It's true, they're not prodded or zapped;
But isn't it sad that one minute they're free
And next thing they know, they are trapped?

I guess they are lucky before that occurs -
They roam free or cling to the rocks,
Never once thinking they'll soon find themselves
In cages or nets on the docks.

I'm sitting here gazing at lobster trap buoys,
Aware that for some it's too late;
Though today they are trolling the ocean's sand floor,
Tonight they'll be on someone's plate!