A Tinge of Dread

Whatever you anticipate
Contains a tinge of dread.
It’s better to acknowledge it
And hope it doesn’t spread.

If you prefer pretending,
Looking only at the good,
You’ll be shocked when you discover
How much you’ve misunderstood.

Though they talk of silver linings,
To an optimist’s delight,
We who recognize disasters
Know that’s only partly right.

For no matter the occasion,
Even those imbued with joy,
There is doubt or grief or anguish
Which the fates may yet employ.

With experience behind me,
There’s a lesson I have learned:
It’s the pessimist who’s powerful,
Preparing to get burned.

Standing Corrected

When a person speaks in error
With a slip you have detected,
You’re often better staying mum
To keep yourself protected.

For setting someone straight
Is often not what is expected,
And there are those who might just feel
A little disrespected.

So next time some amending
To another soul’s directed,
You might prefer to stop before
Your remedy’s rejected.

Not many can quite graciously
Admit, when they’ve reflected,
That maybe they’ve misspoken and
Will therefore stand corrected.

A Sip of Wine

A sip of wine feels oh, so fine
When I encounter tension.
It calms the nerves and too, preserves
Reality’s suspension.

A glass of wine’s not out of line
When there’s some apprehension
That things won’t be so fancy-free,
Though that’s not your intention.

A wine carafe might make you laugh
And, maybe by extension,
Your worries flee and then you’ll see
The powers of prevention.

A jug of wine may help define
And call to your attention,
The fact that life is filled with strife,
Which nobody will mention.

So have a drink; your fears will shrink.
I’ll broker no dissension –
And then you’ll sleep and problems keep
In slumberland’s dimension.

A Poem a Day

A poem a day helps anchor me
So I don’t float away.
It adds some color to my mood
And chases off the gray.

There’s always time to jot some lines,
Though some days it’s a chore;
At times I have to wrack my brain
For subjects to explore.

But mostly, I’m a magnet and
The topics are like nails.
What I observe or hear provides
The fodder – never fails.

And if I’m stuck, some introspection
Seems to do the trick.
I’ll start to write and suddenly,
My thoughts and rhymes just click.

The saying says an apple should
Be eaten every day;
Instead, I choose to pen a poem
And put it on display.

Oscar Night

I’ve seen the Golden Globe awards,
The People’s Choice, the SAG,
Which lets us know, for Oscar night,
Which prize is in the bag.

The only one real obvious,
Consensus is a factor,
Is Lincoln’s star, Day-Lewis,
Who’s a shoo-in for best actor.

The rest are up for grabs, I guess,
With choices to compare;
The question is, at this late date,
If anyone could care.

We’ve watched the actors strut their stuff,
With glamour gowns galore,
Or tuxes, as the case may be,
But it’s been done before.

The Oscars show, once all the rage,
In sequence comes in last.
We’ve heard the speeches, seen the tears
And all that hype has passed.

Of course, I’ll watch the show tonight,
‘Cause that’s what people do;
Though why we care about these things,
I haven’t got a clue.

Awry

Sometimes plans just go awry
Despite your best intentions.
Then you rally and you try
Assorted interventions.

You could shrivel up and die
From all the added tensions,
But to do so would defy
The normative conventions.

It’s a waste to wonder why
There have to be dissensions.
Life is likely to supply
Dilemmas and detentions.

So the thing to do is sigh
And focus your attentions
On ways for you to pacify
Your growing apprehensions.

Resolved

Somehow issues get resolved
Despite a lack of action,
With results, quite possibly,
That meet with satisfaction.

When decisions must be made,
They might antagonize us;
Yet when all is said and done,
The outcome could surprise us.

People may get mired in doubt
And can’t see the solution;
Often, though, there is a choice,
A worthy substitution.

I’m an indecisive sort.
As such, I’m often stuck;
But things get sorted out somehow,
By fate or chance or luck.

Tap Dance Sucker

Can there be a better sound
Than tap shoes, multiplied?
Tapping feet exude more joy
Than most things can provide.

Just today I heard those taps
But never saw their makers;
Such exuberance could not
Be caused by any fakers.

In their practice room, the beat
Was frenzied, fast and frantic;
And the smiles upon my face
Were real and most gigantic.

I’m a tap dance sucker
And it needn’t be Astaire.
Any two-bit tapper
Brings me happiness to spare.

Of all the dances that exist,
If only one were crowned,
I think that tap deserves the prize
If only for the sound!

Defrosting

Frozen items need some time
So surfaces may soften.
In the center, they may stay
Rock-hard - it happens often.

Microwaves may hasten things
So you won’t have to wait,
If you’re very hungry or
In case you’re running late.

Food is easy to defrost –
Unwrap it and you start,
But feelings don’t respond as well
When ice is in your heart.

It may take a lot of work
When boundaries have been crossed
To melt the anger and the hurt
And let your heart defrost.

Turn Around

Life is much more bearable
If, as I’ve sometimes found,
You can strike out negatives
And turn those vibes around.

When you’re quite together,
You can root around inside
And find the place the positives
Most often like to hide.

Then you simply substitute
Each minus for a plus.
It must be done instinctively –
Not something to discuss.

Most of us, though, need a hand
For when we have support,
We have the strength to hear critiques
And slough them off for sport.

I thank my lucky stars because
My family and friends
Are there to boost my spirits when
Some censuring descends.

And with their help I’m back on track
To face what comes my way.
Such comfort means much more to me
Than I can ever say.

How We're Perceived

We never know how we’re perceived
Unless somebody tells us,
And sometimes finding out the truth
Both injures and repels us.

Discovering a negative
In how we come across
Is most disturbing and might show
Our confidence who’s boss.

We try our best to get along
But things get in the way,
And criticizing sometimes helps
To make somebody’s day.

Today I’ve learned at least one person
Thinks I domineer;
Although that isn’t my intent,
That’s how I do appear.

It’s disconcerting to find out
That who we think we are
Is miles away from others’ views,
A distance way too far.

Footprints in the Snow

There are footprints in the snow;
Whose they are, I do not know.
Some are human, some are not;
Some are buried, hard to spot.

Since I haven't been around,
Feet or paws have tramped the ground,
Possibly in search of food
Or to seek some solitude.

Either way, they've left their mark,
Lending me the proper spark,
Waking up my appetite
And the urge to sit and write.

So I offer up my thanks
To the creatures from whose ranks
I've gotten wind, with gentle hints,
They've paid a visit, leaving prints.

Seeds

Every thought within our brains
Is like a seed that’s sown.
Some we nurture tenderly
Until they’re fully grown.

Others we ignore and soon
They shrivel up and die,
Leaving room for newer seeds
To shortly occupy.

Those that we decide to raise
May flourish with some care,
Blossoming and sending shoots
With fruits for all to share.

What each seed becomes we choose,
For each of us, alone,
Determines what we’ll reap
From all the seeds that we’ve been sown.

Stranded!

Imagine this - you take a cruise.
You’re out at sea, with gorgeous views,
When suddenly all systems fail
And you are stuck – no way to bail.

A fire started this distress
But soon, the ship was quite a mess –
No air-conditioning or light,
The darkness frightening at night.

For thousands stranded on the ship,
This turned into a nightmare trip.
The lines for food made moods turn sour
But, far worse, was with no power,

Toilets quickly ceased to flush;
Sewage seeped to rooms once plush.
Plastic bags did substitute,
So human waste would not pollute.

Optimism faded quick –
Passengers were getting sick.
Still, they had to sit and wait;
No one could evacuate.

Finally, the ship was towed.
More than refunds, folks are owed;
Which explains – you’ll understand –
Why my vacations stay on land!

Linzer Tart

A bakery box was waiting
When my key unlocked the door.
Today’s the day of Valentines –
I knew what it was for.

I slit it open, took a look
And broke into a grin,
For something that I truly love
Was nestled there within.

It was a heart-shaped cookie,
Filled with berry jam inside.
For you who know me oh so well
Knew just what to provide.

I will indulge tonight and eat
This lovely Linzer tart,
A perfect symbol of the reason
That you stole my heart.

Ash Wednesday

Certain customs seem quite strange
When out of your domain,
Although to folks who practice them,
They’re easy to explain.

There’s one that quite intrigues me
Though it also mystifies –
A smear of ash upon one’s head,
Which seems to advertise:

I’m Christian and the world should know
Today’s the start of Lent.
At least, to me, it’s always seemed
That that is the intent.

I mean no disrespect, but why
The ashes on the head?
You’d think there’d be another way
To show your faith instead.

Religions all have practices
Outsiders cannot grasp,
And some appear so alien
They make you stop and gasp.

To those who wear the ashes, though,
When fellow folk do not,
You must be proud to show us
The conviction that you’ve got.

The Pope Resigns

Pope Benedict will leave his post,
A move unprecedented.
This news has come as quite a shock
To those he represented.

The Pope before him to step down,
From info I could glean,
Was Gregory XII, who left
In – yes! – 1415!

No wonder headlines blast this news,
For even laymen’s ears
Must hear how jolting this must seem –
It’s been six hundred years!

The Church will locate someone new
By searching ‘round the globe;
And surely they will find the man
Deserving of that robe.

Yet even though his subjects bow
And kiss his Papal ring,
I think that being Pope must be
The world’s most stressful thing.

The problems in the Papacy
With which a Pope must cope,
Seem so colossal, candidates,
When asked, should just say “Nope!”

Some People

Some people appear to accomplish so much,
You wonder just how they can do it.
Whenever an obstacle gets in their way,
They manage to barrel right through it.

They honor commitments, go out on a limb
And even push on when they’re sick.
They manage to finish so much in one day,
You’d love to know what makes them tick.

They nurture their families, check in with friends;
See doctors, pay bills, go to work.
No matter what problems are waiting to pounce,
There isn’t a challenge they’ll shirk.

Such people inspire both envy and awe;
They live on a parallel plane
Which, even if most of us try to approach,
We’ll find our attempts are in vain.

A Fatal Mistake

A father went to clean his car,
All covered up in snow.
For company, he had his son,
Eleven years, in tow.

The temperature was freezing
So the dad thought he should sit
Inside the toasty car
To warm himself a little bit.

The engine hummed, the father dug,
But little did they know
The tailpipe couldn’t do its job,
For it was filled with snow.

The fumes were seeping in the car;
The boy was warm inside.
His father opened up the door
To find his son had died.

Such heartbreak and the worst of it,
As all the signs suggest,
Is that the dad, to help his son,
Did what he thought was best.

It’s very sad but there are times,
Despite our best intentions,
When life is cruel and mocking
And allows no interventions.

I think about that father’s grief
And can’t know how he feels.
I only hope that time and love
Will help him as he heals.

In a Hotel Room

A couple checked into a room
In some small town hotel.
They settled in but were disturbed
By some unpleasant smell.

They checked the bathroom – it was clean.
The closet was, as well;
But clearly there was something off –
Just what, they couldn’t tell.

Before they turned the bedspread back,
To cozy up a spell,
The husband peeked beneath the bed
And let out quite a yell.

His wife crouched down and what she saw
Was something to repel –
There was a corpse, perhaps the room’s
Most recent clientele.

This story’s true and creeps me out –
There is no parallel.
As for the couple, I’m quite sure
They beat a fast farewell.

Blizzard!

The wind is whipping, so the sleet’s
Like needles on your face.
Your feet are slipping on the sheets
Of ice formed everyplace.

The cars are skidding on the roads
That haven’t gotten salt.
It’s so forbidding, each abode’s
Prepared for an assault.

The people shopping in the stores
Buy everything in sight;
Though some are stopping doing chores
That they don’t need tonight.

The blizzard’s blowing as they said,
A fierce, ferocious storm.
So I’m not going out; instead,
I’ll watch from in the warm.

Eighty Years

Thirty-eight years ago, on today’s date,
I first met my husband, and he’s still my mate.
We’ll go out to dinner and surely we’ll toast,
For we’ve been together much longer than most.

But there are some couples who put us to shame
And one in particular’s found some acclaim;
For they have been married, through joy and through tears,
Much longer than anyone else – eighty years!

That’s surely a record and they take the prize.
They both must be loving and patient and wise;
Or else, as the cynic in me might just scoff,
They get through their days with their hearing aids off!

No Mail on Saturdays

There won’t be mail on Saturdays;
The P.O.’s cutting back.
Surprisingly, the news was met
With very little flack.

For fewer things come in the mail;
Most pay their bills online,
Although the mailmen still deliver
Whether rain or shine.

A very distant memory
Within my mind holds sway,
Of postal workers showing up
Two times in just one day.

Perhaps I just imagined that
But it’s not all that strange,
Another fine example of
The ways that things can change.

This new rule won’t affect me, though –
I’ve had a little peek,
And luckily, my birthday’s in
The middle of the week.

I’m sure that in the years to come
They’ll cut the mail again
And so we all should celebrate –
Five days of mail – amen!

Etch-A-Sketch

It would not be such a stretch
To think that every kid
Drew pictures on an Etch-A-Sketch,
Like all my peers once did.

It was a toy that everyone
Possessed in his collection,
For it provided hours of fun
With no need for perfection.

‘Cause if you goofed, with just one shake
The screen went back to blank,
With not a trace of your mistake;
So someone we must thank:

His name was Andre; he was French,
A factory technician.
While using powders and a wrench,
He had an intuition.

He noticed particles that stuck,
By means of static charge,
To decals – what a stroke of luck!
His future was writ large.

It took some years to make the toy
And show it at a fair.
It was a hit and oh, what joy
For children everywhere.

Now Andre Cassagnes is dead
But we owe him our praise,
For Etch-A-Sketch remains a thread
Attached to childhood days.

Eulogies

At funerals, we listen as
The anecdotes are shared.
Some speakers prattle off the cuff
While others are prepared.

The congregation laughs when tales
Embody the deceased.
Those chortles let the tears subside
As tension is released.

As relatives and friends reflect,
Each listener may wonder,
What stories will be told of me
When I’ll be six feet under?

A life that lasted decades
Leaves a void, to some, immense;
Yet just a few examples
And that essence we condense.

The mourners may be left with wisps
Defining the departed,
Such quick-drawn sketches meant to soothe
The not-so-broken-hearted.

Vignettes can only say so much,
Though comfort they provide.
To those who count, there’s much more left
Than words, when someone’s died.

The Worst Super Bowl Party

Many Super Bowls ago,
We went to someone’s house;
I know it isn’t very nice
For guests to go and grouse.

But having been invited by
My husband’s friend from work,
I went expecting lots of fun,
With tasty food a perk.

For Super Sunday, people serve
Huge sandwiches or wings;
But at this party, food was scarce,
With neither of those things.

A table held a bowl of chips,
Some liverwurst and bread.
I think I would prefer to eat
Most anything instead.

If liverwurst was not your thing,
Well, you were out of luck;
And for the hours of Super Bowl,
With hunger you were stuck.

We made it through the night, of course,
But memory’s preserved
That liverwurst, which had to be
The worst food ever served.

Matzoh Ball Soup

Eating in a New York diner?
Here’s a little scoop:
You don’t have to be Jewish
To have matzoh balls in soup.

For in this local area
(New Jersey is included),
When soup is on the menu,
Matzoh ball won’t be excluded.

The chicken broth which forms the base
Should have sufficient salt,
Although complaints most often place
The matzoh balls at fault.

In restaurants, they’re often huge.
Most times, just one’s afloat;
But it should have a fluffiness
To fill you, not to bloat.

Though matzoh balls are served in soup
Each day throughout the year,
The only time I eat them’s when
The holiday* is here.

But like that Levy’s rye ad said,
You needn’t be a Jew
To eat some soup with matzoh balls –
Go on, it’s good for you!

So if you’ve never had a taste,
It’s time to wet your whistle.
I guarantee you’ll love it,
Likely more than just a bissel**!

*Passover   **Yiddish for a little bit

Mayor Koch (12/12/24-2/1/13)

New York’s lost an icon
Who was in your face and brash.
He always spoke his mind and thus,
With many he did clash.

A three-term mayor with a bridge
That’s honored with his name,
His trademark “How’m I doin?”
Vaulted him to fame.

He never lived in Gracie Mansion,
Long a mayor’s goal,
Instead remaining in his village pad,
With rent control.

Koch rarely wore a hat, but once,
While in a winter storm,
His pate, uncharacteristically,
Was covered to be warm.

Reporters teased him and he laughed,
While pointing to his head,
“This schmatte*? Yeah, it was a gift;”
And that was just so Ed.

To many, me included,
He was New York quintessential.
Perhaps his strong appeal
Was rooted in the residential.

I think New Yorkers, all of us,
Will miss old Mayor Koch.
The city won’t be quite the same
Without him on his watch.

*Yiddish for a rag or cheap piece of material