A Resolution

I hereby resolve to declutter.
I’ll slice through my closets like butter.
            What looks dated and torn
            Or what I haven’t worn
Will be bagged up and tossed to the gutter.

I say the same thing every year.
When I promise, I’m really sincere;
            But for true execution
            Of this resolution
 A fairy would have to appear.

And then, with a wave of her wand,
Old garments would up and respond.
            They would float out the door
            And I’d lock it before
With my newer things she could abscond.

A fairy’s unlikely to show,
So my closets will still overflow;
            But I’ve learned how to cope
            Though there’s always some hope
That I’ll give a few things the heave-ho!

The Freezing Point

A chunk of ice fell off a car
As I was walking past.
With temps around the freezing point,
I guess it couldn’t last.

I must have been there when the weather
Inched to thirty-three;
In Fahrenheit, the freezing stops
At that exact degree.

And so that fender filled with ice
Had no choice but to melt.
When Nature is the dealer, well,
You take the hand you’re dealt.

The melting is the easy part to see,
‘Cause just one drip
Announces to the world that Winter’s
Lessening its grip.

What I’d like to observe instead’s
That moment, so precise,
When water leaves its liquid state
And reappears as ice.

We take for granted things like that
For science tells us why;
But there’s a little magic
We’d discover if we try.

Cast-offs

The old TV’s, with bulging backs,
Sit huddled with the trash;
Their value, precious once,
Has somehow vanished in a flash.

Discarded flat-screen boxes
Languish near what they’ve replaced,
A testament to modern times,
When cast-offs go to waste.

A jumbo flat-screen, I’ve been told,
Is one of life’s true perks.
For now, I’ll stick with what I have –
My old TV still works!

Death by Subway

A person pushed into the path
Of an approaching train
Might clamber to avoid his death,
But it will be in vain.

For even if the engineer
Tries slamming on the brake,
There isn’t time enough to stop,
Despite the life at stake.

A true New Yorker knows by now
To stand back, by the wall
So she won’t be the one who’s shoved
And neither will she fall.

Yet twice in recent weeks, we heard
Of tragic subway deaths.
Imagine how those victims felt
As they took their last breaths.

The New York murder rate is down
From poison, guns and knives;
How awful, then, that subway cars
Have ended people’s lives.

Filling the Squares

Got my brand-new calendar;
It’s filled with empty squares.
With entries made, there’s not a chance
I’ll be caught unawares.

I mark down all important dates
So I can send a card.
When penciled in, in black and white,
It’s really not that hard.

Appointments, too, are written
So there’s no way I’ll forget;
And in my bag’s a mini date book,
Like a safety net.

My iPhone has a calendar
But so far I don’t use it.
When I have info on the wall,
There’s no way I can lose it.

So once a year, I make the switch
And transfer all my cues.
My brain needs these reminders
Or it’s apt to blow a fuse.

And as each little square fills up,
Just waiting to arrive,
Anticipation percolates;
The future comes alive.

Winter Weather

It’s hard to walk on slush or sleet;
It’s harder, still, to drive.
The best thing is to stay at home
To keep yourself alive.

For one false step with foot or wheel
And you may fall or crash;
But even if you’re careful,
Nerves will cause your teeth to gnash.

When winter weather happens,
Though there’s not much we can do,
It’s better to remain inside, 
Avoiding some snafu.

Christmas Morning

Early Christmas morning,
Streets were silent and deserted.
The normal weekday bustle
Had been quietly subverted.

The supermarket sign that boasted
“Open every day”
Revealed its lie, for darkness was
The sum of its display.

The stands that peddled Christmas trees
Had vanished, in a snap,
With not a branch or pile of needles
Left behind as scrap.

A lonely taxi cab rode by
While scouting for a fare,
But no potential passengers
Appeared on streets laid bare.

The corner deli beckoned;
Coffee seekers grabbed their fix.
The bagel store invited,
Adding breakfast to the mix.

But mostly in Manhattan,
Like a ghost town in the west,
The population stayed at home
On this, a day of rest.

So even if this holiday
Is not one you observe,
It’s nice to slow things down
And sample life outside the curve.

A merry Christmas, everyone –
Leave all your stress behind;
Tomorrow this will seem a dream
As we’re back to the grind!

Christmas Eve

Stores are closing early;
Restaurants are shut.
Christmas Eve’s for celebrating
If you’re Christian, but…

For those of us who aren’t,
It’s just another night,
Watching reruns on TV
But still, to be polite,

We wish our friends and neighbors joy
For later on, today,
We know that Santa will begin
His journey on his sleigh.

Though he won’t pay a visit here,
I’m glad for those he’ll see,
Awaiting all those gifts he’ll leave
Beneath the Christmas tree.

So have a merry Christmas
If you’re one who does believe;
But as for me, I’ll celebrate
Next Monday, New Year’s Eve!

I Wanna Write a Short Poem

I wanna write a short poem -
Eliminate the fluff -
But somehow just a few lines
Don't ever seem enough.

I wanna write succinctly
And chop down to the core,
Yet all the words I whittle
Keep coming back for more.

I wanna squeeze my meaning
Into just a verse or two,
Though when I reach that threshold,
My poem is not quite through.

I wanna grab that reader
Whose patience may wear thin;
Convince him that the ending's
Close to where he'll first begin.

I wanna write a short poem.
Alas, I cannot do it;
For here, five verses later,
I see I really blew it.

Still, when my poem is finished
I peruse it and I see
That it sounds just like it should
And that's the perfect length for me!

Sustenance

We eat and drink to stay alive
But we need more to truly thrive;
For though our drinking and our eating
Keeps that central organ beating,

We’re aware, despite each thud,
That hearts require more than blood.
With our brains, they intertwine,
Nature’s cleverest design,

Providing what we need to grow –
Only if we nurture, though.
Sustenance must thus be sought;
How to get it can’t be taught.

Each of us must find our way;
Some get lost and others stray.
Still, we struggle and we seek
For that which makes us each unique.

When we find it, we will bloom,
Spouting buds of sweet perfume.
Every being has the power
With some help, to rise and flower.

To My Younger Self

If I were to write to my sixteen-year self
And pass on sagacious advice,
The first thing I’d say is to worry much less,
For stressing out comes with a price.

And problems when young hardly count much at all –
I would cry for a slight or a zit.
Imagine not making the cheerleader squad –
Just the thought would get me in a snit.

Yet how could I know, at the age of sixteen,
All the heartache and sorrow in store?
Would there be any gain in alarming that girl
Who knew nothing of horror or war?

Who, oblivious, never’d encountered disease
Or the pain of decisions gone wrong?
To that knowledge, she couldn’t begin to relate –
Such awareness just wouldn’t belong.

So to sixteen-year me, what I’d pass on is this –
All your problems should not make you fret;
For the future is waiting and you’ll be surprised
How such worries you’ll quickly forget.

Embrace opportunities – make your mistakes
And follow the path to the truth.
I’d let my young self wallow in the mundane,
For that is the province of youth.

Doomsday

Say goodbye, because the world
Is coming to an end.
Do not shoot the messenger –
I’m warning you, my friend.

Gather all ye rosebuds
(Even that which is a sled)
And have a final champagne toast
Or have a beer instead.

Do not fret – it’s destiny.
There’s nothing you can do.
Search on Google all you want
And you won’t find a clue.

Watch your Showtime On Demand;
Tomorrow is too late.
For Carrie, Saul and Brody – well,
We’ll never know their fate.

You should heed the words I say;
Believe me, I’m not lyin’.
I’m lucky that the calendar
I bought last year was Mayan!

Season of Lights

Darkness comes early, so it’s only fitting
That people string holiday lights.
Seeing such sparkles as dusk slowly falls
Is one of the season’s delights.

Candles in windows and baubles on trees
Help chase off the cold weather gloom.
Tulips are hiding way under the earth,
But festive electric bulbs bloom.

Try to imagine a years-ago Yule,
Before Franklin’s key found a spark;
The world must have seemed rather dismal and dim
When houses were swallowed by dark.

But now we can bask in the holiday glow
And revel in twinkling displays.
To Edison we owe a bushel of thanks
For brightening dull winter days.

In-vested

Ken was hot; removed his vest.
Charlie somehow found it.
Charlie thought that it was his
And on his body, wound it.

Next day, Ken was in the room.
Charlie waltzed in, vested.
Ken said, “Charlie – that’s my vest!”
Transfer was suggested.

Charlie shrugged and took it off;
Said, “I’ve got the same one.”
Ken just smiled and took it back –
He’s not one to blame one.

That was near a month ago;
Saw them both today.
Ken once more forgot his vest,
So, without delay,

I offered it to Charlie, but
He wore one of his own.
We shared a laugh – I guess that Ken’s
Forgotten-sweater prone.

In two days hence, I’m seeing Ken
So I’ll return his vest.
I wonder if he’ll notice if
It’s part of how I’m dressed!

Disclaimer

Before my favorite show began,
A message filled the screen
To let the viewers be prepared,
For violence would be seen.

This show is violent every week –
There’s murder, blood and gore;
And last night’s show had nothing
That it hadn’t shown before.

The station heads, however, felt,
In light of recent news,
Perhaps a scene of savagery
Was not what most would choose.

It’s strange to think of being warned
From viewing death in fiction
Because of real life tragedy –
It’s quite a contradiction.

I’d rather watch a TV show,
Which I know isn’t real,
Than to view the anguish parents
Of those murdered children feel.

I glanced at the disclaimer
Then escaped into my show.
The “dead” were only actors,
Which was very good to know.

Notoriety

What’s the point of fame
When only death will guarantee it?
Killers wanting notoriety
Won’t get to see it.

Pulling triggers isn’t hard
And only calls attention
To the fact that murderers,
Not worthy of a mention,

Believe that just one massacre
Will grab the public’s eye;
And here we are, to prove the point,
All wanting to know why.

The reason, though, is obvious –
A crazy, desperate plea
To anyone and everyone,
Imploring, “Look at me!”

The problem with that rationale
Is who’d want to be known
For such a heinous act
That not one person would condone?

For one who feels invisible,
I guess that recognition
Could only be achieved
With firearms and ammunition.

And so we mourn and grant renown
To he who caused our grief;
But knowing that he took his life
Won’t give us much relief.

I Didn't Want to Write this Poem

I didn’t want to write this poem
Of twenty children dead.
I’d much prefer composing words
Of pleasant things instead.

I didn’t want to think up rhymes
For evil, horror, shock;
I’d like to hide those images
Behind a mental block.

I didn’t want to conjure up
A classroom filled with death,
Or parents of those kindergartners
Struggling for breath.

I didn’t want to write of those
Who heard each awful shot.
I didn’t want to write this poem
But then, how could I not?

Avian Antics

My car was parked beneath a tree,
More gingkoish than oaken;
I never noticed birds a’perched,
Yet each one left a token.

The windshield was opaquely masked;
The roof and sides were splattered.
They missed the turned-in mirror,
Though that hardly even mattered.

You really had to give them props;
They surely were effective
In doing such a thorough job –
I held off my invective.

We call somebody bird-brain
When we denigrate their smarts,
But mischief made of droppings
Proves their humor’s off the charts!

Mick Jagger

To say Mick Jagger
Lost his swagger
Wouldn’t be the truth;
But all his zeal
Has less appeal
Than it had in his youth.

His rooster strut
And vanished butt
Still worked the Garden stage;
But just one look
Was all it took
To see the toll of age.

It’s fine to rock
Around the clock
As long as you still can;
But younger folk
Would rather croak
Than lust for that old man.

Is there a time
When, past his prime,
A rocker packs it in?
You’d think he’d know
The time to go
Is ready for a spin.

But folks still cheer
This buccaneer,
Though weathered he may be;
If I could pick,
I’d not choose Mick –
He’s way too old for me!

A Sliver of River

A sliver of river appears in my view;
The window has served up the slice.
Of course, thought I’d love the whole vista, to me
A sliver is almost as nice.

It gives me a glance of the watery ways
That surround us as we stroll the city.
Our island existence we often forget
As we deal with the gruff and the gritty.

Yet just a short distance away are the waves
Which are churned by each ferry and barge;
And at times, Nature’s wrath rises over the banks
Which reminds us just who is in charge.

The river is calm now, the part I can see;
A tugboat chugs by, trailing foam.
I stare out the window and smile at the thought
That this sliver’s delivered this poem.

Holiday Cards

In past Decembers, when my cards
Were purchased, sealed and stamped,
I wrote so many that, for sure,
My fingers burned and cramped.

I mailed them out and knew I’d get
As many in return;
It wasn’t always tit for tat,
But that was no concern.

Yet lately, though, the same routine –
My cards stacked up and inked,
Will yield far fewer back to me –
They’re practically extinct.

Perhaps when e-cards made the scene,
The need for real ones ended;
Or possibly, this busy life
Has left me more un-friended.

But either way, I mailed a lot
And so far, got just five.
It seems that this tradition
May be one that won’t survive.

My holiday is Chanukah.
It’s earlier this year;
So maybe as December fades,
More greetings will appear.

This could well be an omen, though.
Of course, I’m just supposing –
But here’s more proof the postal service
Likely will be closing!

Ace Shirt Laundry

My grandpa owned a laundry
And my father worked there, too.
A visit from the owner’s kids
Nobody thought taboo.

We rode up on the laundry carts
With giant sacks of clothes.
The workers never seemed to mind –
They couldn’t, I suppose.

The best thing was the Coke machine –
My grandpa had the key,
Which he would use to grab a soda,
Ice-cold, just for me.

I’d place that bottle in the slot;
The cap would click and drop.
I’d gulp that Coca Cola (free!)
And never want to stop.

Though years have passed, I close my eyes
And conjure up that place –
The smell of bleach, the burlap bags,
My grandpa giving chase.

It’s strange how we can focus
On some memories so clear,
While others seem, without a trace,
To up and disappear.

That laundry had a child’s allure.
A visit was a treat;
And thinking of it now, I smile,
The recollection sweet.

Grandma's Cookies

Every year at Chanukah,
Like from divine command,
My grandma made the cookies
All her grandkids would demand.

These humble sugar dainties,
Cut in shapes and rolled out thin,
Served as harbinger that Chanukah
Could finally begin.

But each one, crisp and delicate,
Came with the possibility
That part of it would snap away,
Because of its fragility.

So lions rarely kept their tails
And candles lost their flames.
The sturdy dreidels, still intact,
Were prized for lack of maims.

A colored sugar dusting
Coated each and every shape.
From sugar sparkles on your clothes
You never could escape.

My grandma passed her cutters down
To me, and so I strive,
With floured hands, to help to keep
Her recipe alive.

Today I gamely baked a batch;
My kids made the request.
I picture grandma’s smiling face
And think she’d be impressed.

At the Circus

Acrobats and jugglers,
Trapeze, tightrope, hoops.
Horses running ‘round the ring,
Both singly and in groups.

Clowns and lithe contortionists,
Music from the band.
Dogs that climb and leap and prance,
All upon command.

Nothing’s changed in all these years –
It’s still a simple show,
Just like baseball used to be
So many years ago.

Circuses don’t need the flash
Of neon-techno-glitz.
When that happens, I, for one,
Will have to call it quits.

‘Til that day, I’ll ooh and ahh
At walkers on the wire.
A wooden bench, a canvas tent
Is all that I require.

Behind

Usually, I fall behind
Where I’m supposed to be.
One step back (or more), I am
In perpetuity.

Papers pose in giant piles,
Awaiting my perusal.
All entreaties for removal
Meet with my refusal.

Clothes stack up in massive heaps
In hushed anticipation –
Will the washer or the drawers
Be their next destination?

Catalogues lay scattershot,
Their pages marked and folded.
If I were a child, I would expect
That I’d be scolded.

Luckily, my favorite shows
I summon on-demand.
Watching them the first time ‘round
I never could have planned.

Still, I get to everything;
I’ve got it all controlled,
Although I’m often reading news
That’s two or three weeks old!

Be Lucky!

In every single card she sent,
My husband’s mom advised,
“Be lucky!” but her message
Wasn’t quite as advertised.

For luck is nothing we can plan;
It finds us or it doesn’t.
When we look back, we clearly see
Our fortune was or wasn’t.

So when I’d notice her command,
Before she’d signed her name,
It made me wonder where the luck was
I was meant to claim.

In life, you’ve got to have some grit
Or fortitude or pluck;
The one thing you can never count on
Is elusive luck.

Lincoln

Saw the movie “Lincoln”
And it brought the man to life.
Sally Field was also
Most impressive as his wife.

All we know of Lincoln’s
From his writings and the news.
Books and poems abound on him,
Revealing different views.

Still, the figure on the screen,
Day-Lewis in the flesh,
Made Abe Lincoln so alive,
Each utterance seemed fresh.

His mannerisms, posture, speech
And everything he said
Infused him with such life, it hurt
To later see him dead.

I lived through JFK’s demise,
With all its added mystery,
But Lincoln always was, to me,
On money or in history.

Yet now I’ve gained a new respect
And found myself connecting
To this stirring leader, thanks to
Perfect acting and directing.

Holding Pattern

The pilot said we’d be delayed –
A holding pattern loomed;
But being stuck in limbo
Doesn’t always mean you’re doomed.

Though opportunities might hide
When you feel mired in muck,
You’re also stopped from sliding down
And getting truly stuck.

A holding pattern simply means
You circle in the skies.
You can’t make any progress
But there’s time to improvise.

And so you do the best you can
Until the word arrives
That you’ve been cleared to land and then
Your energy revives.

At times it helps to know
A holding pattern’s what you’re in;
For when it ends you’re glad you’ve left
The rut where you have been.

Senility

My aunt remembers details
From her life so long ago,
Yet ask her what she had for lunch
And she'll say, "I don't know."

She knew her old address and all
The neighbors who lived near.
Her memory from eighty years ago
Was crystal clear.

Yet she could not recall the fact
She'd talked about her youth,
Repeating stories umpteen times -
Believe me, that's the truth.

We listened and responded
Like each telling was the first.
Within my aunt's declining brain,
The time has been reversed.

But still, we had a lovely time -
We laughed and reminisced.
Those tales from days long past to me
Are so hard to resist.

The mind's a most peculiar thing -
As brain cells up and die,
We travel back to how we were,
The present day a lie.

Tortoise

Come wrestle with a gator!
Said the poster at the fair.
With tape around its mouth, it looked
Pathetic in its lair.

Yet in a cage adjoining it,
A tortoise ambled 'round,
Its movements sure and steady,
One foot lifting off the ground.

With claws extended, it appeared
To glide on tippy toes;
Its ancient eyes gazed straight ahead,
A true reptilian pose.

The children leaned and stroked its shell.
It didn't seem to mind,
Although I'm sure it would have liked
A stroke from its own kind.

That tortoise kept on moving,
Though perhaps to help prepare
For a coming-soon encounter
With an unsuspecting hare!

Different Lives

People lead such different lives,
It's sometimes quite a shock
To hear the tales of souls
Where opportunity won't knock.

We live in our complacent worlds
While others claw and suffer;
And when we get a glimpse, we see
What's there behind our buffer.

For what we take for granted
Isn't even on their screen.
The lucky have, the poor do not;
There's not much in-between.

And money's not the answer;
It's a case of grit and pluck.
Determination keeps the wheels
In motion, plus some luck.

Yet hearing others' stories
Makes it obvious who thrives - 
The ones who work their asses off
To elevate their lives.

Off Balance

There are days it seems I have
Too much upon my plate.
Whether this is good or not
Is up for some debate.

On the plus side, it feels fine
To hustle and keep busy;
But the negative is that
I’m often in a tizzy.

Running ‘round with chores to do
And friends to meet is great.
Sometimes with so many plans
It’s hard to keep them straight.

Other times, though, when I check,
My calendar is bare.
Then I wonder why it is
I’ve so much time to spare.

It’s rare, in life, to balance
Purpose, flow and relaxation,
Unless you’ve left it all behind
And gone on a vacation!

Bob Wire

As a kid, I was told
To beware and not touch
If I ever encountered Bob Wire.
This warning was something
I took quite to heart
So avoiding it was my desire.

It took many years
‘Til I learned that the word
Wasn’t “Bob” but was “barbed” with an “r;”
And that knowledge made sense
For a danger named Bob
Seemed both harmless and rather bizarre.

I saw some today
On the top of a fence
And remembered my enemy Bob.
As I chuckled, I thought
That just being a kid
Is a challenging, difficult job!

On the Floor

I witnessed on the subway
What I’ve never seen before –
A woman tumbled from her seat
Onto the dirty floor.

It seemed that she was sleeping
And, as we all sat and stared,
We wondered who would intervene,
But not one person dared…

Until a brave soul leaned on down
And shook the sleeper’s arm.
She boldly shouted, “Get on up!”
A human-train alarm.

The sleeping lady gave a moan
And uttered, “I’m all right.”
Perhaps she thought she was at home
And tucked in for the night.

The kindly soul persisted,
Saying, “Get back in your seat!
You’re stretched out on the filthy floor,
Surrounded by our feet!”

At this, the sleeper’s eyes went wide;
She let go with a curse.
The Good Samaritan backed off,
Afraid of something worse.

The passengers all held their breaths;
The train stopped at the station.
The sleeper slowly rose and made
A seat her destination.

She promptly fell asleep again.
Who knows what wiped her out?
But watching this, I understood
What life is all about:

When people struggle, some will help
But most won’t interfere,
‘Cause sometimes the recipients
Would rather you stay clear.