Zhwoop

When sending out an I-Phone text,
I listen for the noise
That lets you know your text was sent –
It’s one of texting’s joys.

The sound is soft and sensitive;
It gently does convey
The fact your message made it through
And now it’s on its way.

A little tiny airy zhwoop
Describes the note I hear.
It’s like a subtle sigh that someone’s
Whispered in my ear.

I rarely text, but when I do,
The part that I love best
Is waiting for my confirmation,
Zhwoopily expressed.

Gourds

One of autumn’s great rewards
Is seeing farm stands, stacked with gourds.
Orange pumpkins take their places,
Waiting for their scary faces.

Other gourds have shapes bizarre –
Who knows what the heck they are?
Speckled, stripy, curved and green,
Strangest veggies I have seen.

But my favorites at the stall
Are the tiniest of all.
They’re like pumpkins, only mini –
Seeing them, I get all grinny.

Imagine if all elves and gnomes
Have mini pumpkins at their homes.
If so, I’ll bet their mini-swords
Make jack-o-lanterns of those gourds!

Noodle Pudding

Everybody’s noodle pudding’s
Baked a different way.
If you lined them up, you’d find
A real diverse display.

Mine, which is delicious,
Has two different kinds of fruit –
Orange slices from the can
And pineapple, to boot;

Sour cream, vanilla, butter,
Eggs and cottage cheese.
It disappears so fast, there’s not
A piece left I can freeze.

My friend makes hers with cream cheese,
Also pineapple and milk!
She bakes it half as long as mine
And says it’s smooth as silk.

Some recipes have raisins
And use cinnamon for spicing.
That combination, to my palate,
Isn’t that enticing.

In spite of the ingredients
That they’re concocted of,
All kugels* taste delectable
If they are made with love.

Yet every cook who makes one
Would be proud to take a test
Just to prove what she knows in her heart –
Her noodle pudding’s best!

*Yiddish for noodle puddings or other baked dishes

Out of the Gaits

Watch the people walking –
Check their bodies, not their faces.
You can tell a lot as they
Perambulate their paces.

Strutters filled with confidence
Step lively, arms a’swinging,
Silently announcing
It’s their “A” game they are bringing.

Trudgers tramp with labored tread –
They’re carrying a weight;
Dispirited, they have no place
To which they might be late.

Tourists amble merrily;
They traipse on guidebook treks,
Jauntily meandering,
Their cameras ‘round their necks.

On any city street, observe –
Analysis awaits,
For there’s a lot to learn
By scrutinizing people’s gaits.

lower case

i love to write in lower case
but if you ask me why,
the reason i would give you is
it comes down to the “i.”

my first initial, written small,
is capped off with a dot.
the way it hovers makes me smile –
i like it quite a lot.

most people stick with capitals;
from grammar rules, no slummings -
except for those outside the norm,
like poet e.e. cummings.

i’ve always loved his chutzpah
for it took a lot of nerve
to get his poems, unique and cool,
the notice they deserve.

with email now, the rules are bent
so when i correspond,
i always type in lower case
with fonts of which i’m fond.

yet many times i will concede
and give in to convention.
i’d hate to be perceived as one
just dripping with pretension.

but really, who i am’s ilene,
expressed in lower case.
that dotted “i” identifies
as clearly as my face.

The Fast

I will not eat tomorrow
For this holiday, I fast.
The reason why is that it’s my
Connection to the past.

I’m not hung up on sinning,
So atonement’s not my goal.
I worry not that I’ve a blot
On my supposed soul.

Yet since I was a child,
This one custom I observe;
Thus history, to some degree,
I manage to preserve.

Tomorrow I’ll be hungry,
But at night I’ll be released.
What I love most – we’ll raise a toast
And dig in to a feast!

Overflowing

A basket holds the magazines
And catalogues I’m saving,
But when I’m not around, I think
They all start misbehaving.

I could have sworn I left them
In a neat and tidy pile,
But now they’re topsy-turvy,
Which is really not my style.

New Yorkers constitute the bulk;
They take so long to read!
Then More for women over 40 –
Much more, I’ll concede.

The wicker also wields a wad
Of travelogues and such;
Toss in some home décor gazettes
And man, it’s just too much!

I’ve gotta get them straightened out
Or they will slide and fall
And knock down all my newspapers,
Which will not do at all!

Noneday

Have you ever had a Noneday?
It's a day that disappears.
You were hoping for a fun day,
But you somehow shifted gears.

As the hours slipped through your fingers,
Like a sifter filled with sand,
Time, which often stops and lingers,
Wasn't quite at your command.

Though you thought you would partake in
Some activities outside,
Obligations let no break in,
So that sunshine was denied.

Most weeks don't contain a Noneday.
That's a good thing, there's no doubt;
But before it gets to Monday,
Step aside - I'm getting out!

Wildlife Surprise

An angry squawking sound outside
Disturbed the rural peace.
I thought some crazy bird was perched,
His cry a mad release.

Instead, I stared a squirrel down;
His tail was all a'twitch
As he emitted clucking sounds
At quite a fevered pitch.

Between each dozen chirrups
He let out a plaintive moan.
The message, loud and clear to me,
Was "Leave my turf alone!"

In all my years I never have
Encountered such a creature.
The real surprise was learning
Squirrels had that vocal feature.

I wondered if perhaps he had
A scary case of rabies
Or possibly, he was a she,
Protecting squirrel babies.

In any case, I went inside
And left him to his squawking.
I hope he'll scamper far away
Before I go out walking.

What He Meant

I read a poem once to my class
And it was one I’d written.
I’d hoped my students by the writing bug
Would thus be bitten.

A sixth-grade pupil came to me
And asked me, most sincerely,
Which book I’d copied from;
I thought I hadn’t heard him clearly.

“I wrote the poem,” I did reply.
“The words came from my brain.”
It was a fact that he just couldn’t
Really entertain.

He thought a writer had to be
Like some exotic creature,
Most certainly no one he’d know
And surely not his teacher!

Last night I heard a famous writer*
Read from his new book.
I listened, rapt, and just a page
Or two was all it took

To bring me back to teaching days,
But how the table’s turned!
I wondered how that writer knew
The things that he had learned.

I thought of what I’d told that kid
And now, to some extent,
I understand, some years too late,
Exactly what he meant.

*T.C. Boyle

Seating Arrangements

When growing up, we had our seats
Around the dining table.
We knew where everyone belonged –
We didn’t need a label.

Within the car, the rules applied;
The window seat was mine.
The youngest got the middle seat –
He’d dare not try to whine.

As an adult, I’m still the same –
I like the seat I’ve picked;
In classrooms, lunchrooms, or the car –
Usurpers I evict.

Some people just don’t understand.
They think I'm dictatorial,
When really, it’s within my genes
To be quite territorial.

We all have quirks, and one of mine
Is choosing where I sit.
It’s juvenile and just a tad
Obnoxious, I admit.

But since it means a lot to me
Most people seem to yield,
Perhaps enjoying someone else’s
Craziness revealed!

Screwed!

A princess who prances about in the nude
Should realize that cameras she cannot elude.
So naturally, photos, exposed but not lewd,
Made headlines and numerous times have been viewed.

The prince and the princess have rightfully sued.
The cameras did not have a right to intrude;
For even the royals, as they rendezvoused,
Deserved to have privacy and solitude.

At least we know Kate won’t be known as a prude,
Which the pictures give people the right to conclude.
Yet in her private moments, when all is reviewed,
I’m sure that cavorting the princess has rued.

We blame paparazzi, so clever and shrewd,
But their actions quite simply can’t be misconstrued;
For they merely provide what we hope they’ve pursued –
A celebrity glimpse that can be ballyhooed!

Elephant Slaughter

Lurking in the foliage
Or shooting from the air,
Ivory poachers seek their prey
To naturalists’ despair.

Elephants, both young and old,
Are gunned down every year,
For reasons that their missing tusks
Make eminently clear.

An easy source of revenue,
The tusks fulfill the need
For criminals to profit from
Some tycoon’s grisly greed.

Tens of thousands die this way,
Their bodies left to rot.
Our voices should be raised in wrath
But sadly, they are not.

The elephant – so noble
And astonishing and wise –
Deserves some human help to stop
This onslaught of demise.

A Tank of Gas

Fifty dollars fills the tank
And the price keeps climbing.
You can count on that as much
As that I’ll keep on rhyming.

I will never understand
What determines prices.
Driving shouldn’t be the cause
Of people’s sacrifices.

Yet to many, buying gas
Costs more than they can spend;
And the high price at the pump
Seems like the going trend.

Way back in the olden days
A driver’s big expense
Was shelling out, per gallon,
Something close to fifty cents.

Years go by and prices jump
Yet I am still amazed
That fifty dollars for the tank
Will likely soon be raised!

Egyptian Women

Egypt’s ruling party thinks
That women should obey.
Husbands rule and lowly wives
Should do just as they say.

A counseling class for brides-to-be
Gave guidance tough to swallow,
Saying that a man must lead
And woman merely follow.

Females in the class agreed.
Beneath their covered hair,
They said decision-making
Wasn’t something that they’d dare.

The leader told them that’s the way
The sexes were created.
Women are subservient,
A thought no one debated.

If I’d been born Egyptian,
Maybe I’d feel that reliance,
But from here I wish Egyptian gals
Would rise up in defiance!

Mold

I bit into a berry
And discovered hidden mold.
Its outside looked unblemished
As it did when it was sold.

I spit it out and wondered
How it fooled me with its coat.
Appearances deceive; the chance
Of mold seemed quite remote.

I guess that’s true with people, too.
Despite how they appear,
Beneath the surface they might be
Both mean and insincere.

It doesn’t take too long to find
What’s lurking out of sight;
And oftentimes, the truth comes out
With just a single bite.

Lesser Talents

Billy Collins wrote a poem,
A roll call of the dead.
The TV brought their faces up
To match the names he read.

His paean was so poignant;
With simplicity and power,
He honored all the victims
Of our nation’s darkest hour.

I listened to him, mesmerized.
He conjured such a mood
That anybody watching
Would be somber and subdued.

My husband turned to me and said,
“Now that’s a top-notch poet,”
Implying I’m not in that league,
As if I didn’t know it.

I tip my hat to Billy.
To my husband I replied
That lesser talents still possess
Some purpose they provide.

And so I write my thoughts in rhyme
Which somehow satisfies,
Despite the fact my lesser skills
This work exemplifies.

Jumbo

New York’s mayor wants to ban
The sale of jumbo drinks.
This will cure obesity,
At least that’s what he thinks.

Those who guzzle sweet iced tea
Or soda by the gallons
Never thought they’d have to hide
From Mayor Bloomberg’s talons.

It’s a bit Big Brotherish,
For putting into law
A bill to limit what we drink
Can stick in someone’s craw.

I’m conflicted – though I know
These drinks can make you fat,
Government should not control
Our choice to get like that.

People most affected by
A strong, humongous thirst
Will simply buy two smaller drinks
And Bloomberg will get cursed.

As freedom slowly fades away,
It causes me to think;
And though I’ll use a smaller cup,
I really need a drink!

Watching the Tourists

It’s fun to watch the tourists
As they stroll around and gawk,
Their maps clutched in their fingers
For their first time in New Yawk.

They navigate the streets to get
To where the guide books say,
Pausing just to snap their photos,
Then they’re up and on their way.

I don’t offer any help unless
They come to me and ask,
For to butt in someone’s business
Shouldn’t be a native’s task.

But if they require assistance
To their chosen destination,
I’ll do what I can to counter
A New Yorker’s reputation.

For at times, I am the tourist
In a city I don’t know.
I appreciate the locals
Who direct me where to go.

Since the world is full of strangers
From an unfamiliar place,
We can welcome their arrival
With a smiling, friendly face.

Root, Root, Root

When you’re at a sporting venue,
You should have someone to root for;
And it’s necessary, also, to have
Somebody to hoot for.

An opponent you can root against
Makes watching much more fun,
And you have such satisfaction
If he loses, when it’s done.

But before the match is over,
You get caught up with the crowd;
Everyone is busy cheering,
Seeing who can be most loud.

Though if your contestant ends up
With the short end of the stick,
You should not regret the fact that
He’s the one you chose to pick.

Give due credit to the other
And remember – time will pass;
For the next time they compete, you know
Your guy will kick his ass!

Feathers

The Torah, sacred to the Jews,
Is written with a quill.
They wrote it that way long ago
And write it that way still.

That feathers from a turkey,
Once its proud and glossy coat,
Could be penned for such a purpose
Seems a usage quite remote.

Yet the ancients tended to their tasks
With what they had at hand;
And turkeys must have strutted,
Unaware of their demand.

My feather musing happened when
I noticed on the street
Two pigeon feathers, blocks apart,
A rather strange conceit.

I wondered if a pigeon plume
Could take a starring role
And substitute for turkey quill
To ink a Torah scroll.

Perhaps if such a circumstance
Would come to its fruition,
There’d be a Torah tiny as
A paperback edition!

Blimp

A city sight I sometimes spy
Floats, barely moving, in the sky.
It seems cartoonish in its shape
And causes everyone to gape.

It circles slowly, like a shark,
To locate what it’s meant to mark:
A football game or tennis match
Or clash its cameras hope to catch.

Its mission’s not a mystery;
It’s up there strictly for TV,
In silent slither through the skies
To search for scoops with raptor’s eyes.

Reporters on the ground bring news
But they don’t have those sky-high views;
For aerial’s the way to go
When you are putting on a show.

And we who watch, indoors or out,
Enjoy its journey, there’s no doubt.
I’m glad the networks do not skimp
When they have access to a blimp.

Monet's Garden

I’ve been privileged ‘cause I’ve seen
The paintings of Monet.
One museum near my house
Has many on display.

The gardens of Monet provided
So much inspiration,
His palette came from Nature
More than his imagination.

I never knew how true that was
Until I paid a visit
To Monet’s garden, re-created,
Looking most exquisite.

The experts horticultural
Of New York’s main Botanical
Did such a bang-up job I’m sure
Their research was fanatical.

The water lily ponds are filled
With plants as flat as platters
And such purple-petaled flowers
Standing next to them just flatters.

There’s a copy of the famous bridge
From Monet’s house in France
And surrounding it, a swirl of blooms
The colors of romance.

A vacation to Giverny
Isn’t something I have planned,
But the New York imitation
Made me start to understand

That the genius of Monet was more
Than paintings that enchanted;
For the magic he created
Was inspired by what he planted.

(written after visiting The New York Botanical Garden’s exhibit)

A Poet's Garage Sale (in couplets)

There’s quite a sale in my garage,
A poet’s plethoran montage
Of metaphors and similes
And verses guaranteed to please.

A nest of nouns, a vat of verbs;
Some quotes quite perfect for your blurbs.
A carton filled with stale clichés,
Which budding writers can rephrase.

I’ve baskets filled with parts of speech
Left from the days I used to teach.
So many sentences to choose,
Ambitious wordsmiths cannot lose.

So come on down – check out my stuff;
Describing it’s not good enough.
A poet’s sale is most inviting –
It may spark a love of writing!

*Note: This poem is a reworking of 
yesterday's poem into a couplet format.

A Poet's Garage Sale

I’m having a garage sale
Though I don’t have a garage.
Come check out all my offerings –
You’ll see a strange montage.

I have similes and metaphors
So old that they’re clichés.
There are sentences and verses
Budding writers can rephrase.

From a stack of nouns quite towering
Are so many you can choose;
Mix and match with all my adjectives –
You simply cannot lose.

There’s a vat of verbs just waiting,
Some with adverbs still attached;
And a box of prepositions,
With its lock no longer latched.

There might be a spare conjunction
Hiding underneath the rhymes;
As for interjections – Ha!
They’re rare as Mercury-head dimes.

Yet if you pay me a visit,
You might find the words you need;
I’ve been cleaning up my clutter
And there’s good stuff, guaranteed.

So come pick through my possessions
‘Cause I’m lightening my load.
Then feel free to write a sonnet
Or a limerick or ode.

For garage sales held by poets
Are, to me, the most inviting,
Since your purchases may point you
To the pathway paved with writing.

Life is a Dance

Sometimes life is such a bore we run on automatic;
Then it’s time to tango for a dash of the dramatic.
Or when things are dull and only gusto will suffice,
We cha-cha or calypso to inject a dose of spice.

We hustle off to work each morning, foxtrot through the day
And hope that time’s electric slide just melts the hours away.
At clock-out time we say goodbye and jitterbug on out;
We hokey-pokey home because that’s what it’s all about.

Some easy days we waltz on by; we’re caught up in the swing
And lindy-hop or tap our way through all that life can bring.
We may go round in circles or, to deal with our despair,
Find someone we can partner with and do-so-do with flair.

For life is like a dance and we are held within its sway;
We dip and twirl and fake the steps, from polka to ballet.
The music of the atmosphere imbues us with its beat
And if we choose to hear it, we just follow with our feet.

Frame of Reference

My reality might be
The opposite of yours.
You may think the words I write
Are merely metaphors.

Some may be, I’ll give you that,
But mostly they’re the truth,
A frame of reference I’ve been in
From early days of youth.

Of course, that frame’s expanded
As experience has grown.
We each exist within a world
We cling to as our own.

But oftentimes I get a jolt
That knocks me like a blow.
What’s obvious to me
Is something others may not know.

Within my frame of reference
I describe the things I’ve seen.
I’m shocked when those beyond that frame
Do not know what I mean.

Serena!

Her opponents on the court
Must battle inner quaking
In anticipation of the shots
That she will soon be making.

Watching her attack the ball
Is so intimidating,
I would hate to be the one
Across the net, just waiting.

As a fan, I watch in awe –
Her power, strength and muscle,
Plus the fleetness of her feet
Add up to quite a hustle.

Toss determination in –
She’ll go that extra mile –
And you’ve got Serena:
She’s a powerhouse with style.

I’m watching her compete right now,
In neon pink and yellow,
And every aspect of her game
Is anything but mellow.

The match is done – Serena’s won,
An outcome not surprising;
As for her future challengers,
I’ll soon be sympathizing.

Cricket Conversations

Ch-ch. Ch-ch. 
These crickets drive me crazy.
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
They keep me up all night.
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
My neighbor says they're peepers*
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
But I don't think he's right.

Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
I'm tossing and I'm turning.
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
I haven't slept a wink.
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
Invading all my brain cells,
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
They will not let me think.

Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
It's peaceful in the country
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
If crickets don't converse.
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
The city has its sirens
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
But cricket chirps are worse.

Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
I'm waiting for the winter
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
And man, the time does creep!
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
When crickets take vacation
Ch-ch. Ch-ch.
So I can get some sleep!

*tiny frogs

One Small Step

We all looked up and held our breaths -
No person was immune -
That day in 1969
When Armstrong walked the moon.

It seemed just like a fairy tale -
Could such a thing be real?
But yes, it was and "one small step"
Became a great big deal.

Those years were filled with promise
And that moon walk did embrace
The love affair, so rife with hope,
We had with outer space.

But times have changed; we've lost the thrills
That NASA did provide
And now to add the final blow,
We learn Neil Armstrong's died.

A special place within our hearts
For Neil we'll always keep;
All mankind owes a debt to him
Thanks to that "giant leap."

As I gazed at the moon last night,
In glorious display,
I thought of Armstrong's footprints,
Long ago and far away.