Playing Pottsy

With a piece of sidewalk chalk,
We’d set the game in motion;
For summer in the city
Gave us neither pool nor ocean.

We’d draw the board so carefully,
One number in each box;
And for our markers, we would search
For little twigs or rocks.

The rules were very simple
And were followed to a T:
Your marker had to land right in box 1 –
That part was key.

And then you had to hop around
From boxes 2 through 8.
If both feet landed in a box,
You really sealed your fate.

For doing so, or stepping on a line,
As we would learn,
Would cause your pals to let you know
That you just lost your turn.

The second toss required
That your marker hit box 2.
Of course, if it touched any line,
That simply wouldn’t do.

But if your toss was clean, you then
Hopped right up to the end,
Until, with hops and tosses
You’d defeated every friend.

Amazing just to think of how
We kept ourselves amused
With sticks and rocks and sidewalk chalk
On urban avenues.

The Downside

I know I’m getting older;
The calendar can’t lie.
The years of staying out all night
Have simply passed me by.

My clothing still looks youthful.
My energy’s not low;
Yet I’m not fooling anyone
And this is how I know:

As soon as I step on the train,
I’m offered up a seat.
It’s chivalrous, polite and kind
But also bittersweet.

For even though I will accept,
(A subway seat’s like gold.)
That person’s really telling me,
“Hey lady – you look old!”

Though courtesy is wonderful,
Please don’t misunderstand -
I’d rather blend into the crowd,
Quite happy just to stand.

Exit to the Rear

In the front door, out the back
Is how it ought to be;
On New York City buses,
Many people disagree.

The city’s added buses
With three doors instead of two,
In hopes that riders might just do
What they’re supposed to do.

Announcements blare reminders:
Exit middle doors or rear,
But still folks clamber forward,
Just as if they didn’t hear.

The lines outside get longer
For all those about to board.
They glare at front-door exiters,
But they are just ignored.

It seems a simple problem,
The solution very clear:
The front door is for entering;
To exit, use the rear.

But people do just what they want
So we are in a fix,
For even New York City can’t
Teach some old dogs new tricks!

Memorial Day

My father was a soldier
And he fought in World War II.
He never shared his stories
Of the battles he’d been through.

We looked at all his pictures
With his uniform and gun,
Just horsin’ with his buddies
And pretending it was fun.

Yet even though the years had passed,
It still was a mistake
If he dozed off on the couch
And it was time to have him wake.

For a tiny little poke and bam!
He’d jump up in alarm,
In his head back in a foxhole,
Fighting off impending harm.

We kids learned early on
That we should tap him and step back;
In seconds he would realize
That it wasn’t an attack.

It made me wonder ‘bout the war
And all that he’d endured.
Those pictures kept the truth at bay,
Reality obscured.

I think about my dad
And every soldier on this day.
We can’t imagine how it feels
To muddle through the fray.

So we can only honor them
For what they sacrifice.
Not every soldier perishes,
But each one pays a price.

Wisdom of a Weed

A dandelion crossed the line,
Announcing, "I'm no weed!"
A snooty jonquil tsked, tut-tutting,
And replied, "Indeed!"

The daffodils began to laugh,
The tulips joined their mirth;
For all the flowers knew their place
While rooted in the earth.

The gentle daisy, wild herself,
Took dandelion aside;
"No matter what the others say,
Your charms can't be denied.

Your golden yellow adds a dash
Of color to a garden
And if some snub your presence,
Answer back, 'I beg your pardon.'

Just tell them that your greens are used
To make a tasty dish,
And children pick your fuzzy forms
And blow to make a wish."

The dandelion straightened up
And nodded with delight,
For even if she was a weed,
Well, that would be all right!

City Birds

A seagull on the railing
And a pigeon on the ground
Were surveying their surroundings
And were pleased at what they found.

“I have the better life,” thought gull,
“For here, along the river,
I have a view and all the food
The river can deliver.

Poor pigeon has to scrounge and peck.
He’s on the grubby streets.
He has to dodge the moving feet
Of everyone he meets.”

The pigeon, on the other hand,
Was thinking as he strutted.
If he had heard the seagull’s thoughts,
He’d likely have rebutted.

“I love my urban habitat.
My world is rich with choice.
On sidewalks, statues or in parks
I burble and rejoice.

There’s plenty here for me to eat.
I’ve got a million friends.
With all the teeming humans,
People-watching never ends.

The seagull, sadly, must rely
On waterways for food.
His meals are raw, while I indulge
In morsels barbecued.”

The pigeon cooed and bopped his head;
The gull took to the sky,
Each convinced that his existence
Made him quite a lucky guy.

Siren Songs

Sirens sang seductive songs
In ancient myths from Greece.
When you heard their melodies,
You couldn’t rest in peace.

Modern sirens interrupt
The flow of our routine.
Danger! is what they announce
And we know what they mean.

If coming from an ambulance
Or fire truck, they say,
“I’m in a rush, so hurry up
And clear out of my way!”

When air-raid sirens blared in wars,
That meant to get inside,
So citizens out on the streets
Would quickly run and hide.

The sirens’ modern meaning
With the past we can compare;
In either case, a siren’s song
Is telling us – beware!

Show and Tell

In grammar school, my favorite part
Was weekly show and tell.
It was the one activity
At which we’d all excel.

We’d bring to class most anything
Of which we were quite proud.
It was a time to share our joy
And boos were not allowed.

One time I brought my special cup;
Its handle had a bird
And when you blew into its tail,
A whistle’s what you heard.

Some other items I displayed
(I had my mom’s permission)
Were medals from the war
That gave my dad some recognition.

Though years have passed since grammar school,
This custom perseveres.
In quilting class, a finished product’s
Shown to claps and cheers.

We ooh and aah at every stitch;
The quilter grins and beams.
We never notice crooked borders
Or uneven seams.

For show and tell’s a time to crow
And strut on center stage.
Acknowledgement feels wonderful,
No matter what your age!

Below the Surface

A fisherman just yanked his catch,
Still squirming, from the river.
I never thought those waves contained
Such bounty to deliver.

I asked what kind of fish it was;
The catcher didn’t know.
He cut the hook and wrapped it,
His free meal from down below.

We gaze out at the surface
And we hardly ever wonder
‘Bout the teeming life existing
Out of sight, in realms down under.

And humankind, just like the sea,
Has depths we cannot plumb;
For sticking to the surface
Has become the rule of thumb.

We cross the paths of people
Yet it’s rare to make the leap
From their obvious appearance
To what lurks beneath the deep.

Puddle Stomping

On my power walk this morning,
When my mind was in a muddle,
I was suddenly confronted
By a toddler in a puddle.

Now, the puddle was humongous -
It was like a little lake;
And this little boy was stomping,
Leaving ripples in his wake.

Though at first I thought him barefoot,
He had sandals on his feet
And his face displayed the hugest grin
You’re ever bound to meet.

Standing near him with his stroller,
Looking both amused and calm,
Was his parent waiting patiently –
Of course, it wasn’t mom.

For it surely takes a father
To not care if he got wet.
Neither cold nor dirt nor water
Would be thought of as a threat.

Yes, a father’s meant for frolic,
Not a part of the routine;
And cavorting in a puddle’s
Much more fun than keeping clean.

Yet I wish that I’d been witness
(I’d have gotten satisfaction)
To that father’s shock when he got home
And saw his wife’s reaction.

Boom!

The rumbling of thunder
From some bowlers in the sky
Makes me shudder, gape and wonder
Why we tell our kids that lie.

Does it reassure them, thinking
All that noise is just a game?
Or are they aware we’re winking,
Making such a silly claim?

As a child I did envision
Rip Van Winkle getting strikes;
And I pictured the collision –
Pins and ball – each bowler likes.

But I knew that my perception
Didn’t make a lot of sense
And that grown-ups used deception
At their little ones’ expense.

Still, perhaps their best intention
Isn’t really so off-base
If it soothes some apprehension
And puts giggles in its place.

So when thunder starts resounding
I will think just like a tyke
And find comfort that the pounding
Is another bowler’s strike!

First Place

I’m sitting here with quite a grin
‘Cause I don’t have the discipline
To try to put another spin
On boasting of my first place win.

I know that judging is subjective
And I’m often quite reflective
When my poems are found defective,
Clashing with my own perspective.

But this time, the judge agreed
And my entry did succeed!
I am feeling fine, indeed;
Now one thing is guaranteed…

Like that Preakness winning horse,
I would like to reinforce
That fact that we will all endorse
“I’ll Have Another” – but, of course!

In the Shade

The sun is warm and golden,
Beaming down on hill and glade;
But I’m shivering inside because
I’m sitting in the shade.

Every sunny bench is taken
So I’m perched within the gray.
I’m a prisoner of shadows,
Though I’m free to walk away.

Still, the sun slides through the heavens
And the shadows stretch and move.
I’ll remain where I’m reposing,
Like I’ve got something to prove.

In an hour, give or take,
I think my bench will catch some rays;
But until that time arrives
I’m in a goosebump-making phase.

It’s a fool who waits for something
That is not in her control,
For the wiser person knows
Anticipation takes its toll.

Unfinished

Schubert had a symphony
He didn’t quite complete,
Though the parts he finished writing,
We consider quite a feat.

David Foster Wallace
Left his novel not quite done;
Still, the accolades accorded it
Have piled up, one by one.

Many things have value
Even though they are unfinished.
An artist’s reputation means
Their worth has not diminished.

For projects may be started
But not make it to the end.
We cannot know the message
The remainders did portend.

Perhaps the final passages
Might not have satisfied;
The composer might have tossed them
And committed symphocide.

So we are left critiquing
Works abandoned halfway through.
Might they be much better finished?
We don’t really have a clue.

In the Wee Hours

In the wee, wee hours
From a deep, deep sleep,
I was jolted upright
By a clueless creep.

For he dialed my number
And my phone did blare;
So I grabbed it quickly,
Wondering who was there.

As my heart was pounding
And I prepped for grief,
I awaited news
From my slumber thief.

But he left me hanging,
The connection lost;
And for hours after, 
I just turned and tossed.

Yet that hang-up helped
To make my fears subside.
After all, nobody
Whom I love had died.

Still, a part of me
Simply must condemn
Someone calling at
3:45 A.M.!

The Pact

Theatergoers at a show
Hope it is guaranteed
That reality’s suspended,
Which is all we really need.

Both the audience and actors
Enter in a silent pact:
In the seats, we block our problems;
On the stage, they grandly act.

It’s a tacit understanding
That we’re all there to escape,
Though the methods we have chosen
May assume a different shape.

When the actor is performing,
Disappearing in his role,
All his real-life issues vanish
And he’s tightly in control.

If he does his job correctly,
That’s the ticketholder’s dream;
For the world upon that stage
Is all there is, so it would seem.

We don’t need to sign a contract
For the theater’s sealed the deal:
While the curtain’s up we’re certain
What we’re witnessing is real.

The Words at My Disposal

The words at my disposal
May be simple, even trite;
Yet they suffice to satiate
My rhyming appetite.

I spice them up as best I can
And simmer them with care,
At times attempting recipes
Exotic, if I dare.

Though usually my degustations
Match my aptitude;
I’ve sampled other sustenance,
But rhyme’s my comfort food.

And when I dish it out, I hope
That someone takes a bite.
It may not be gourmet, but hey,
I think it tastes all right.

Forgotten

A young man was arrested
And was locked up in a cell.
He never thought his life would turn
Into a living hell.

The San Diego D.E.A.
Forgot that he was there.
For four days in a barren cell,
He suffered in despair.

He had no food or water
Nor a toilet or a sink.
His urine was the only choice
When he was forced to drink.

His hands were cuffed behind his back
But still he kicked and screamed.
He contemplated suicide,
The only choice, it seemed.

When agents found him, four days late,
And saw his sorry shape,
They took him to the hospital,
His overdue “escape.”

Though he’ll survive, his lawyers say
They plan to file a suit.
I hope somebody’s found at fault
And that they’ll prosecute.

This level of incompetence
Is truly monumental.
The D.E.A.’s response was
It was simply “accidental.”

The callousness of that remark
Proves they don’t have a clue;
For nightmares such as this,
A simple “sorry” just won’t do.

Mothers' Day Thoughts

Pick out the flowers – pay through the nose;
Vendors take all they can get, I suppose.
Treat her to dinner, give her a kiss;
Mothers have waited all year just for this.

If she lives distant, pick up the phone;
Tell her how much all the kiddies have grown.
Mail her a package, pick out a card;
Then you’ll be covered in that whole regard.

Yes, it’s all hokey and silly and trite;
Still, not to do it just wouldn’t feel right.
This is the day we must all celebrate;
Tomorrow won’t cut it - you can’t do it late.

If you’re a mom, then enjoy all the fluff,
Though really, it never could be quite enough.
All of our efforts, while often ignored,
Have taught us that motherhood is our reward.

At the Farmers' Market

Flowers, waiting to be sold,
Beckon, brilliant, bright and bold.
Such a colorful array,
Nature’s palette on display.

Veggies also strut their stuff;
One can never buy enough.
Fruits compete to draw the eye;
Hard to pass that freshness by.

Peasant bread and tangy cheese;
Scones and muffins, sure to please.
Home-made pretzels, farm-grown meat;
Supermarkets can’t compete.

Urban spaces seem to thrive
Whenever farmers’ trucks arrive.
We city folk appreciate
The bounty that their farms create.

It must take so much time to prep
And oh, the crates they have to schlep!
We love the peonies and phlox;
The Farmers’ Market really rocks!

Under the Knife

In surgery, it’s anesthesia
That provides the buffer.
The patient is oblivious
And doesn’t have to suffer.

The family, on the other hand,
Must sit around and wait
On pins and needles, wondering
About their loved one’s fate.

It’s easier to be the one
Who’s underneath the knife.
Awareness is suspended
Of your worries and your strife.

But for the friends and relatives,
The hours stretch real slow.
It’s agony to sit outside
And not be in the know.

At last, procedures have to end.
Some news they will impart;
And then we’ll all begin to breathe.
Recovery will start.

Same-Sex Marriage

Years ago a marriage couldn’t
Join two different races.
Still some people hate
What that legality embraces.

Now today, the fight goes on
With gays who want to wed.
Those with hatred in their hearts
Protest these laws instead.

Why anybody cares what others do
Remains a mystery;
But loudmouths love to spew their wrath,
With precedents in history.

Today we’ve learned our president
Has made a risky move,
Endorsing same-sex marriage,
Which so many won’t approve.

I heartily applaud him
And I’m glad he took a stand.
Perhaps this huge announcement
Means that change is close at hand.

For those who argue natural law
Should not let gays unite,
They have to face that fact, to most
This is a human right.

A same-sex couple in your midst
Will not pose any threat;
And if you choose ignoring them,
They wouldn’t mind, I’d bet.

So kudos to Obama
For his brave and bold decision.
Equality is closer now
To what we can envision.

Neon

One thing we can all agree on
Is the pure allure of neon.
Even if you hate its glow,
That’s the way your eyes will go.

As for me, I love its pop,
Perfect for a photo op.
It improves most any sign,
Adding glitz to the design.

All the colors make me smile;
Green, though, is my favorite style.
Still, it is a dying art;
Pricing must be off the chart.

Neon has one big surprise,
Which most people don’t surmise.
You may think it cool or crass –
Either way, it’s made of gas!

Think of that next time you spot
A bit of neon, glowing hot.
Looks like liquid, acts like paint,
But remember – those it ain’t!

"The Wild Rumpus"

A book I often read my kids
Was Where the Wild Things Are.
The story’s strange and so is Max,
This classic’s costumed star.

His mother called him “Wild Thing”
And then he was sent to bed.
He missed his dinner but he found
Adventures there instead.

A forest grew inside his room;
An ocean, too, appeared.
He climbed aboard a boat and sailed;
This all seems rather weird.

He traveled to a far-off land
Where wild things gnashed their teeth.
They made him king and he was thrilled,
But lonely underneath.

Of course he left them all behind,
Returning to his room.
His supper sat there, nice and hot;
He’d eat it, we presume.

For at the end, we have no clue
About the time that passed;
Or if his mother changed her mind,
Her guilt on board at last.

What matters though, as Sendak knew,
Is Max was drawn back home;
And there he found security
Despite his need to roam.

This magic book, though very odd,
No reader can resist.
The genius who created it
Will very much be missed.

(In honor of Maurice Sendak, 6/10/28 – 5/8/12)

Wishing Coins

In the garden, by the fountain,
I was sitting in a chair.
As the visitors approached,
I saw them hesitate and stare.

For the pool of water glittered
With a sea of silver change.
Not one warning sign was posted,
Which to me was kind of strange.

I imagine out-of-towners
Or some locals on a tour
Make a wish and toss their coins,
Which settle on the fountain floor.

Do these people think their wishes
Have a chance of coming true?
Or is tossing coins in fountains
Just a thing that people do?

If you add up all the money
That museum fountain gleans,
It could really be a fortune;
And I’m curious – who cleans?

But much more, I wonder if the wishers
May be disenchanted
When they realize that their wishes
Somehow never do get granted.

Still, most people think it’s fun
To make a wish and throw a coin;
And if I am honest, I’ll admit
At times I’m apt to join.

Judgments

Everyone’s a critic;
Each of us a judge,
Making our pronouncements
After wading through the sludge.

Weighing all the options,
Probing with precision;
Finally arriving at
A personal decision.

Judgments are subjective
Beyond the basic rules
And sometimes someone judging
Overlooks the hidden jewels.

Life is full of choices
And every time we choose,
Though somebody rejoices,
Another has to lose.

Life

There’s good news and bad, happy and sad
And sometimes they happen together.
There’s drought and there’s rain, pleasure and pain,
Connected as if by a tether.

We’re up or we’re down; we smile or we frown
And often just hours apart.
We soar or we crash; we blend or we clash,
Controlled by the brain or the heart.

We’re in or we’re out; we’re sure or we doubt.
At times we can’t make up our minds.
We’re lost or we’re found; we’re free or we’re bound,
As each tie to survival unwinds.

There are facts and surprise; there is truth, there are lies.
There are choices both bitter and sweet.
There is foe, there is friend; beginning and end
And a circle when all is complete.

Overdone

I guess it’s good to look unique
Or have a special glow,
But when one’s face makes her a freak,
It’s something she should know.

Like Michael Jackson in his prime
Who couldn’t see the truth,
The “tanning mom” has wasted time
To get back to her youth.

Forget about her kid for now –
The way that mom appears
Is worse than movies that allow
The ghouls that conjure fears.

Why someone’d do herself such harm
Is way beyond my ken,
Although such models of alarm
Come forward now and then.

A little tan can add allure
But when one tips the scale,
The mirror should reveal for sure
It’s better to be pale!

"The Scream"

One hundred nineteen million,
Crazy though it has to seem,
Was bid at auction yesterday
For Munch’s famous “Scream.”

Four versions of it do exist,
Just one in private hands,
So it attracted many bids,
As small supply demands.

The bidder was anonymous;
We only know he’s rich,
With cash enough to satisfy
His art-procuring itch.

Just hearing of this sale’s amount,
A number so extreme,
Was enough to make me mimic art
And clasp my cheeks and scream!

Up Close

I saw him heading towards my face;
His eyes were black as night.
He stared with such intensity
He gave me quite a fright.

As he got closer I could see
Each feather, brownish tipped.
His wing span proved for action
He was rather well-equipped.

Another flap or two and then
His talons got prepared.
They opened wide, revealing
Claws that really got me scared.

This owl was ready, soon to swoop
To catch his best meal yet;
And I was there to witness it –
I love the Internet!

May Day

Mayday, when repeated thrice,
Signifies distress.
It’s a known request for help,
The same as S.O.S.

May Day also represents
The workers of the world.
In protests, rallies and parades,
Their banners are unfurled.

The Middle Ages used this day
To celebrate the earth.
A dance around the Maypole
Generated joy and mirth.

So whether you’re a worker
And are sorely underpaid,
Or you’re on a ship that’s sinking
And you’re signaling for aid,

Or you’re happy and just waiting
To join in a Maypole fling,
Today we should acknowledge
What the first of May does bring.