Aprons

I wear an apron when I bake –
It used to be my mother’s.
I like that old connection, ‘cause
I could be wearing others.

For many years you couldn’t find
An apron anywhere,
Except a plain old white one,
Lacking kitschiness or flair.

When I was younger, housewives had
A kitchen-y collection;
The aprons then were purposeful,
Not objects of affection.

But now in stores, they’re back in stock
In patterns most delightful.
A yearning back to simpler times?
Although that sounds insightful,

I think it’s just a retro thing –
To see the past as cool;
Yet batter-spattered aprons prove
The wearer is no fool!

Tiger and Lindsey

Tiger Woods and Lindsey Vonn
Are dating – golly gee!
So when she nails him cheating,
She can clock him with a ski.

His ex-wife, Elin, only had
A golf club for the deed.
A ski should work much better,
Though that isn’t guaranteed.

If I were Lindsay, you can bet
I’d be quite well-prepared;
And Tiger, with his balls in tow,
Would soon be running scared.

Layers

When packing for a trip to where
The weather’s always iffy,
It’s hard to know just what to take
So you’ll be looking spiffy.

The same advice is given by
Experienced conveyors,
And that is you should plan each day
To dress yourself in layers.

I understand the concept, but
The execution’s tough.
Some t-shirts, long-sleeves, sweaters –
Will that combo be enough?

Or else my suitcase will weigh more
That I do, pound for pound;
And shedding all those layers,
That’s a lot to schlep around.

Whatever clothing makes the cut
Will be what I will wear;
And once I’m there, I have the feeling
That I just won’t care.

Small Town, USA

I’m looking at the Calders at the Whitney, what a treat!
Just standing by myself, when all at once, who do I meet?
The father of my daughter’s housemate, who lives miles away;
Yet both of us converged to check the art in the display.

We see each other once a month, at staff and parent meetings
And at the house is where we’ve always talked and had our greetings.
Today, though, by coincidence, our parent guard was down,
And New York City seemed just like a typical small town.

It isn’t common to encounter people that you know
Away from where you know them, in the city’s ebb and flow;
But sometimes these things happen and despite the urban sprawl,
You realize that it really is a small world after all.

Accused

A woman in the store said she
Had falsely been accused.
The situation seemed to be
Not easily defused.

She claimed a sales clerk followed her
And looked inside her bag
To see if possibly there was
An item she did snag.

The argument was getting loud;
I couldn’t help but hear.
The back and forth was jarring
In the store’s chic atmosphere.

I paid and left – I’ll never know
The end of that dispute.
It made me wonder how I’d feel
With sales clerks in pursuit.

For profile victims have to boil
With anger to the hilt,
Just knowing others look at them,
Imagining their guilt.

That woman might be innocent
Or possibly, a thief;
But I’ll admit, not being her,
I walked out with relief.

Gefilte Fish

The company was wonderful;
The meal was quite delish,
All lovingly prepared except
The jarred gefilte fish.

But certain things you have to have –
Tradition reigns supreme –
And years ago, gefilte fish
Was added to the scheme.

Of course, back then my grandmothers
Prepared it all from scratch.
They started with the pike and whitefish,
Fresh from someone’s catch.

I’ve heard of homes where pike or carp
Would swim around the tub;
Nobody took a bath ‘til grandma
Clunked it with a club.

Now that gefilte fish was great,
‘Cause it was made with love;
The fish in jars is tasteless, yucky, bland –
All the above.

To make it fresh you need much more
Than I have got to give,
And so I serve the bogus stuff –
My guests will all forgive.

The other food was killer
So I really must profess
That, minus homemade fish, our Seder
Was a great success!

My Daughter Said...

My daughter said to write this poem
And so I said I’d try.
She rarely asks for such a thing
And so I should comply.

We spent a day with special friends –
Had lunch and saw a show.
The sun was out, the food was good,
The talk and laughs did flow.

The play, my daughter’s favorite,
Told of Joseph and his coat.
We know the story and each lyric
Brilliant Tim Rice wrote.

It was delightful being there,
A day we won’t forget;
And now that it’s been set to rhyme,
That’s even better yet!

Preparation

Shopping, baking, cooking, dusting
In anticipation;
Having guests is wonderful, but
Oh, the preparation!

If you have sufficient time,
It isn’t really taxing.
Take things slow and in between,
Just squeeze in some relaxing.

Holidays come once a year
And when your job is hosting,
All that leads up to the day
Is countdown to almost-ing.

It feels good to check your list
And cross off things you’ve finished;
Soon you’ll see that all your chores
Have gradually diminished.

Then your company will come
And kudos you’ll be gleaning;
But in your mind, your thoughts will be
On all the hours of cleaning!

Boomerang

On travels to Australia,
Someone brought me back a gift –
A brightly colored boomerang,
Which gave me quite a lift.

It got me thinking – wouldn’t life
Be better all around
If we were like a boomerang –
Now, that’s a thought profound.

Imagine if what we sent out
Came back to us the same,
So if we got some nastiness,
We’d know just who to blame.

The people treating others well
Would reap rewards right back.
Perhaps there’d be an impact,
Keeping more of us on track.

A boomeranging golden rule
Is truly what we need,
Though such a thing, of course,
Could not be really guaranteed.

For boomerangs don’t always work –
I haven’t tried mine yet –
But with some practice, it’s a skill
I think we all could get.

One Man's Paradise

People always travel in
Their own peculiar way –
Airline tickets, restaurants
And where they choose to stay.

Some use points to pay their fare;
Others upgrade seats.
Many read while flying,
While a number send out tweets.

Certain people like hotels
Familiar in their perks.
Others search for funkiness,
A place with charm and quirks.

There are those who choose to dine
In eateries quite posh,
Different from the travelers
Who’d rather cheaply nosh.

Some will plan a city trip –
Museums, shopping, parks –
Every day’s itinerary filled –
No question marks.

Others like a quiet beach,
Relaxing in the sun.
Lots prefer to exercise –
They hike or climb for fun.

If vacation plans of yours
With friends do coincide,
Just be sure that you’re in sync
Before you all decide.

One man’s paradise might be
Another’s living hell.
Then you’d all be better off
To travel parallel.

Minutiae

Focus on the unimportant;
Fret about the fluff.
Then your mind’s too busy
For the really scary stuff.

Concentrate on clothes to buy,
Colors for your paint;
Then thoughts of mortality
On consciousness won’t taint.

Little aggravations can
Monopolize attention;
Thus the bigger issues stay
In places we don’t mention.

We are all much better off
When we can agonize
About the daily trivia
That serve as a disguise.

For underneath, such terrors lurk
Which take away your breath.
Let’s worry ‘bout a wedding –
There’s no time to think of death.

Between the Lines

Sometimes there between the lines
A hidden message lurks.
Sharp-eyed readers understand
That’s often how it works.

Simple correspondences
May seemingly reveal
Communiques at odds with how
The sender might just feel.

Perception isn’t always right
And instinct could be off,
But truth may fool a shallow soul
While “deeper” folk may scoff.

What we say and mean
May twist and tangle up like vines;
The trick in the deciphering
Is there between the lines.

In the Rain

Balancing your pocketbook,
Umbrella and a bag
While the wet relentless rain
Accosts you is a drag.

Whipping wind is adding fuel
To metaphoric fire.
Wish that where you’re going
There would be a waiting dryer.

Nothing you can do when days
Are windy, wild and wet
Except to know that once you’re soaked,
No wetter can you get!

An Alphabet of Talent

Fred Astaire was king of tap
Biggie Smalls was huge in rap
Carson (Johnny) ruled TV
Dylan’s songs are poetry
Elvis made the girls all swoon
Frank Sinatra loved to croon
Greta Garbo hid from sight
Hitchcock gave us all a fright
Isaac Hayes’ voice dips low
Johnny Depp steals every show
Kenny G can blow that sax
Larry David can’t relax
Michael Jackson changed his face
Norah Jones embodies grace
Oscar Wilde wrote books and plays
Peter Falk had piercing gaze
Quincy Jones finds music stars
Raitt (that's Bonnie) rocks guitars
Sally Field lights up the screen
Tony Kushner nails each scene
Uma Thurman makes men drool
Viggo’s talented and cool
William Shatner’s still around
Xin Xin Xiong in films is found
Yoko Ono married John
Zach Braff’s big on Amazon

All this talent, A to Z
Keeps us entertained, agree?

Wearin' o' the Green

Kelly, olive, hunter, pea –
Any green will do ya.
On St. Paddy’s Day, in green
Is how the world should view ya.

Forest, avocado, teal –
So many shades for choosin’.
Mint, pistachio, chartreuse –
Such greenness for effusin’.

Army, jungle, lime and pine –
Whichever one is pleasin’.
Deck yourself in green today –
The world will know the reason!

The Orchid Show

Yesterday was gray and bleak
And raw, as some days go,
But that was all forgotten at
The Garden’s Orchid Show.

It nearly knocked my socks off –
All the colors, patterns, shapes;
It has to rank with all the greatest
Urbanites’ escapes.

The visitors all snapped away,
With camera or with phone,
To try to capture just a bit
Of beauty Nature’s grown.

Though photos don’t do justice
To that magical display,
I’ll look at them and I am sure
They’ll brighten up my day.

The Ides

If today, bad luck collides
With ordinary living,
You can blame it on the Ides
And be a bit forgiving.

For this date forever will be
Marked as one of woe,
Even if misfortune never
Picks this day to show.

Certain superstitions seem
To stake a lasting claim.
The Ides of March is surely one,
And Shakespeare is to blame.

Sighting

Friends go on safaris
To observe life in the wild.
Here in New York City,
All the wildlife’s fairly mild.

But yesterday I had a thrill
To vanquish any scowl
For, hidden in a leafy tree,
There sat a saw-whet owl.

Birders with binoculars
Had homed in on this treasure
And the little bird sat still,
Just filling us with pleasure.

I’ve never seen an owl alive
Except those in a zoo
And here was one in Central Park -
A saw-whet, too – who knew?

It wasn’t quite a lion
Or a zebra or giraffe
But my saw-whet owl sighting
Was excitement and a half!

Smoke Signals

In this age of tweets and twitter
Or the Oscar envelope,
It’s really strange the way we learn
They’ve chosen a new Pope.

A chimney in the Vatican,
Where ballots have been burned,
Sends smoke up as a signal
To all Catholics concerned.

The smoke may be quite black, which means
They haven’t yet decided.
Perhaps the Cardinals inside
Are stuck or else divided.

But when they’ve reached a verdict
Then the smoke is white and pure,
To let the waiting populace
Know that they’re really sure.

I guess with some traditions
The old-fashioned way is best
And with that white smoke billowing,
All doubts were put to rest.

Dungarees

The dungarees I used to wear
Were Levis, Wranglers, Lees;
There were no upscale denims then,
With fancy pedigrees.

They hugged my hips and fit real snug,
With bottoms flared like bells.
I wore them ‘til the hems were frayed
And then said my farewells.

Today I cleaned a closet, finding
Jeans in every shade –
Light ones, stonewashed, dusky blue,
Enough for a parade.

Some are baggy, others tight;
Most have legs quite straight.
Several hit the thrift store pile,
Sorely out of date.

As I tried them on, I thought,
I wish that I had kept
Just one old pair of dungarees
From days gone by, except…

You cannot resurrect the past,
So what would be my goal?
The girl who wore those Levis out
Was strictly rock and roll.

I still love rock but also jazz
And Mozart, I admit;
And sad to say, my current jeans
Seem like a better fit.

The Spread of Crime

Students at Columbia
Are smart and also deft,
Yet someone’s figured out their scheme,
Which is a form of theft.

They aren’t robbing banks or stores
Or stealing from the dorms,
But something’s disappearing,
Likely carted off in swarms.

I’m talking ‘bout Nutella!
It’s a chocolate, nutty spread –
The perfect yummy nourishment
To slather on some bread.

It’s also quite delicious
From the jar onto a spoon.
With loads of it in the café,
Temptation’s opportune.

But now the secret’s out and so
The stuff may disappear.
The Ivy Leaguers may need other
Substances to smear.

The weirdest thing to me is that
This story made the news.
Nutella theft must be among
The campus’s taboos.

A parent would be reassured
While on a college tour
To hear the biggest crime was
A Nutella saboteur.

The Cards We're Dealt

Every day’s a card game
And so there’s always hope
Each shuffle of the deck may bring
Just what we need to cope.

Though life is never easy,
People’s challenges may vary
And the cards we’re dealt may seem
Unfairly arbitrary.

There’s comfort, though, in knowing
Others grapple with their hand,
Possibly in ways which we
Could never understand.

Life’s a fickle dealer
So we take the cards we get
And when the deck’s been good to us,
It’s still not safe to bet.

For aces do not guarantee
That things will go our way.
A good luck streak will never keep
Adversity at bay.

We play the hand we’re given
And resort to strength within,
For at times we may get lucky
And just possibly, we’ll win.

Spring Ahead

Tonight we set the clocks ahead.
The morning will be dark;
But afternoon will linger,
As from day we disembark.

The sun will last for hours.
There’ll be much more time to fill;
And all that light will beckon
Hyacinth and daffodil.

Like filings to a magnet, we’ll be
Drawn to the outdoors,
Ignoring mop and vacuum
And those boring indoor chores.

For once the day is longer,
There’s a need to be outside
To soak up all that air and sunshine
Nature will provide.

It’s strange to lose an hour
But it seems an honest price,
For the trade-off is a brighter day
And that is very nice.

The Pearls Within

Inside every one of us
There is a little pearl,
Deposited at birth, like genes,
To every boy and girl.

It nestles in the recesses
And all it does is wait.
Unlike the oyster’s, it won’t grow
When problems irritate.

The human pearl responds to joy
And praise, support and love.
It varies based on challenges
And those we rise above.

It’s nurtured even though most folks
Don’t know that it is there.
Perhaps such knowledge would prevent
So much of life’s despair.

That beauty tucked inside of us
Appears when it is bidden;
Yet sadly, there are many pearls
That destiny keeps hidden.

After the Play

I entered a contest for plays;
I’d hoped for approval and praise.
            The audience cheered
            And nobody jeered
And I even was given bouquets!

We followed the show with a dinner.
I grinned like the grinniest grinner.
            The feelings that flowed
            And the way that I glowed
Would convince someone I was the winner.

Today they confirmed what I knew –
My chances for glory are through.
            But still, though I lost,
            There were barriers crossed
And I made an impressive debut.

The lesson I learned from this chance
Is that fortunes don’t always advance;
            But if you never try
            You’ll be wondering why
You’re the wallflower watching the dance.

Showtime

Your plans are all made; they’re predicting a storm.
You’d like to stay home where it’s cozy and warm;
But commitments take precedence, weather or not,
And being there seems like the one choice you’ve got.

So you cross all your fingers and even your toes
And hope that the gale chooses not to impose,
For Nature’s in charge of controlling our fate
And all we can do is get anxious and wait.

Street

At the museum, with wall to wall art,
My choices were varied and vast.
I saw an exhibit with works of Matisse
And checked out some statues I passed.

But then I was drawn to a strumming guitar
And a crowd by a video screen,
Transfixed by a slow-motion film of New York,
The ultimate urbanites’ scene.

The footage was shot from inside of a car,
On the move while on various streets.
The people, oblivious, strutted and strolled
To their private internalized beats.

The movie, called “Street,” took some moments in time
And transformed the familiar to strange,
For by slowing things down to a snail-crawling pace,
What was humdrum did magically change.

From most Met* displays, this one surely did seem
Like a separate world, quite apart;
Yet it did what it should, for it helped us transcend
And to me, that’s the purpose of art.

*Metropolitan Museum of Art

On the Brink

The days are getting longer;
The sky’s remaining light.
It feels like spring’s arrived
But Mother Nature says – not quite!

The temperature’s still chilly;
The wind chill ruddies cheeks.
The calendar confirms that spring
Is not for a few weeks.

Yet birds have started chirping
And buds are on the trees.
Puddles keep their liquid form
And just refuse to freeze.

Although I love the winter,
I’m tantalized to think
That seasons are about to switch
And spring is on the brink.

Residual Joy

Did you ever have one of those magical nights
When everything clicks into place?
When the stars are aligned and your mood is defined
By a flood of support to embrace?

Surrounded by loved ones and showered with warmth,
The smiles seem to sprout with no end.
You’re super aware that you cannot compare
What you feel, since it seems to transcend.

You want it to last but you know that it can’t,
So you try to just cling to a trace
Of those glorious vibes that a poet describes
As a rendezvous time can’t erase.

But you know things can’t stay at that memorable peak
For you must reconnect with the ground.
Still, you cannot deny that from feeling so high,
There’s residual joy to be found.

Focus on the Crocus

If we focus on the crocuses
Just nosing from the ground,
We’ll realize there’s a corner of which
Spring is just around.

Their little stems are poking up
With leaves all tucked in tight,
Just waiting to reveal their colors,
Much to our delight.

For when those purples manifest,
The season’s underway;
And crocuses will lead the dance
In Nature’s spring display.

Until that magic time, we wait
And need no hocus-pocus,
For reassurance beckons if we
Focus on the crocus.

Distraction

Tennis players stop a match
If sometimes they’re distracted –
A feather, shout or airplane noise
Means that their game’s impacted.

Yet often when you’re under stress
Or feeling sad or nervous,
A good distraction, you might find,
May really be of service.

A novel, movie, phone call, game
Or better yet, a visit,
Can take your mind off all your woes –
The respite is exquisite.

Distractions guarantee relief,
For pressure they repel;
And lucky me, to be distracted
By my Aunt Sydelle!