Forty Winks

If a nap fell in my lap,
I’d let it, for I know
That hours sap and often tap
Your get up and your go.

I’d shut my eyes and, no surprise,
I’d drift off in a cloud,
Where lullabies, in any guise,
Would never be allowed.

For I once thought that no one ought
To waste the day in sleep,
But slumber sought, when nerves are taut,
May make the nighttime creep.

So when I’m spent, I’ll be content
To float away and choose,
Without lament, a quick descent
Into a little snooze.

Ritual

A coming together
Of family and friends
For a ritual old as the hills
Is fraught with emotion
And laughter and tears,
Whatever the kinship instills.

For sharing one’s joy
Is the ultimate prize
That’s awarded to kith and to kin
Who’ve been there by your side
For the ups and the downs
And connect with you under the skin.

Oh, how lucky I feel,
So surrounded by love,
To be buoyed on a magical high
As we welcomed the son
Of my son and his bride –
There is no one more grateful than I!

Safekeeping

If something’s stored to keep it safe
And then you must retrieve it,
You’d better hope that you remember
Where you chose to leave it.

For oftentimes, the hiding place
You took so long to find
May somehow, ‘cause of age and time,
Have vanished from your mind.

And then you tear your house apart
Or really rack your brain,
But there’s a chance that all that work
Might sadly be in vain.

So think before you stash an item
Saved for future use,
For years from now, that knowledge
From your mind may be vamoose.

Patiently

The dog sat waiting, patiently,
His gaze fixed on the door,
While Master disappeared
Into the bowels of the store.

The owner’d tied his leash up
And commanded “Sit” and “Stay,”
So the dog did as instructed,
Though he couldn’t really stray.

He whined a bit while watching
Every shopper who walked out,
But every disappointment caused
A subtle doggy pout.

I wondered what he thought about
As he so calmly sat;
Most likely, something similar
To “Where the hell’s he at?”

At last, the owner did appear,
To leaps and wagging tail,
As proof to every loyal pet
That patience will prevail.

I Feel Like I'm Addicted

I feel like I’m addicted
But it’s not to any drugs.
If you’re a brand-new grandma,
You’ll give nods and knowing shrugs.

For a baby born to one of yours,
Especially the first,
Opens such a flood of feeling
That you feel like you could burst.

Though I’m sure I’ll wean myself away
As time goes through its ticks,
Meanwhile I must visit Henry
Just to have my daily fix.

Hoppy

I like a beer that’s hoppy,
With a bitter, pungent bite.
I never drink ‘til sloppy,
So imbibing is all right.

But when I have my nightly brew,
I want it to assert;
And every sip should help renew
In manners quite overt.

With hue of bronze and foamy head,
When poured, it should invite.
A lesser beer won’t do instead,
Especially if “lite.”

An I.P.A.* that’s filled with hops
Is drink for which I yearn;
So brewers, I will offer props
And daily, I’ll return.

*India Pale Ale

Mosaic

Many years ago, in camp,
A project quite prosaic
Was manipulating tiles
To make artwork in mosaic.

We lined up all the little squares
In patterns and designs,
With creative juices flowing
As we stepped outside the lines.

With every tile I glued in place,
My confidence increased;
The fact I’d made an ashtray
Was he part that mattered least.

A subway wall mosaic
Set my memory abuzz,
Remembering how calculated
Each tile placement was.

It takes a lot of patience
To make magic using tiles,
Thus mosaic seems to me to be
The cleverest of styles.

In Sync

If you’re part of a couple
Together for years
And your marriage is not on the blink,
You’ve lasted through trials
And troubles and tears,
So you’re closer than others might think.

You may not agree all the time
With what’s said,
But you hold yourselves back from the brink,
‘Cause together you’ll tackle
Whatever’s ahead,
With the strength of longevity’s link.

If this picture applies
And you’ve made it so long,
You don’t need the advice of a shrink,
For united you’ll face the world
Doubly strong,
By the virtue of being in sync.

In the Bookstore

In the bookstore; need a gift.
Choices do abound.
Spend an hour in the aisles,
Looking all around.

Hard to tell what would appeal;
The present’s for a baby.
Though his shelves are empty now,
Each book elicits “Maybe.”

So I stand there, skimming through
The shiny cardboard pages,
Wondering if this or that
Will be one that engages.

Finally, I make a choice
As patience starts to dwindle.
All I hope is that as yet,
He doesn’t own a Kindle!

Sirens

Hear a siren passing by
And thank your lucky stars
Someone else’s problem
Will not cause you any scars.

For every passing ambulance
Has someone in the back –
A hit and run or overdose
Or, likely, heart attack.

You see the flashing lights go by
And hear that plaintive drone,
So fortunate that you’re not there
To hear somebody moan.

Yet every minute, every day,
Emergencies occur;
But if that siren’s not for us,
That’s what we’d most prefer.

Almost Autumn

Although it’s almost autumn
And the stands are stacked with mums,
It somehow feels like we’ve been stuck
With summer’s unswept crumbs.

For temps are in the 70’s,
So folks are wearing shorts;
And baseball scores are still a part
Of all the sports reports.

There’s watermelon in the stores
And burgers on the grill;
Mosquitoes buzz around the screens,
Their thirst for blood to fill.

Yet shops are decked for Halloween
And football season’s started.
Ice cream trucks have hushed their bells
And for the south departed.

The almost-fall’s confusing.
We’re betwixt and we’re between;
But Mother Nature, with her paintbrush,
Soon will intervene.

When oaks and elms and maples
Sport their red or russet hues,
Then autumn will be here for real
And we won’t have to choose.

Sour

At a dinner so late,
Felt like weights on my eyes,
I scarfed down a sandwich
And crispy hot fries.

Along with fresh coffee,
It helped me revive,
For fries are a mainstay
That keep me alive.

But next to my sandwich
And cole slaw, my plate
Held a treat, which was clearly
The best thing I ate:

A fat slice of pickle,
Just bursting with crunch,
The perfect companion
To dinner or lunch.

It added allure
And the greatest part yet
Is this pickle was SOUR –
The most you can get.

They’re almost extinct
So I sure was surprised
To bite into a taste
That New Yorkers once prized.

I pondered the source
Of its barrel of brine,
But wherever it came from,
I’m thrilled it was mine!

Holding Henry

When I was holding Henry,
Though it wasn’t very long,
His body felt so tiny
But his presence was so strong.

His fingers, with their teeny nails,
Stretched out, as if unfurled,
When just two days ago,
He wasn’t out yet in the world.

I marveled at his perfect feet
And hair, as soft as down;
His face, as peaceful as could be,
With neither smile nor frown.

In the minutes I held Henry,
He was able to impart
He’d already found the pathway
Leading straight into my heart.

Newborn

Tiny little fingers;
Teeny little toes.
Little breaths escaping from
Your itsy bitsy nose.

Skin as soft as satin;
Lips a perfect bow.
Belly up and down as if
You’re putting on a show.

In your isolette, you doze
While visitors all stare,
In awe of your existence
And just thrilled that you are there.

Dream on, brand-new baby,
Unaware of all your charms,
For we are here to cradle you,
Protective in our arms.

You’ll never understand the love
Your birth has caused to rise
Until you’re on the other side
And see with grown-up eyes.

For now, your job is just to be
So settle down and sleep,
Cocooned by our emotions,
Which are tender, pure and deep.

Sparrows in the Fountain

Sparrows in the fountain,
With their feathers all a’fluff,
Frolic and remind me
Sometimes Nature is enough.

I can feel the bonds releasing,
Where they’d tightened ‘round my heart,
As I sit and watch the sparrows
While they dip and douse and dart.

Though they’re not the main attraction,
As the flowers love to boast,
It’s the sparrows in the fountain
That call out to me the most.

So when Stress, though most unwelcome,
Pays an unexpected visit,
Just an hour with the sparrows
Is an antidote exquisite.

Sucks

If we say something really sucks,
The meaning’s very clear,
For that expression, once improper,
Now’s a common smear.

But saying something sucks can be,
And I’ve not been imbibing,
A compliment – if it’s a vacuum
That one is describing.

So next time you hear someone say,
“Oh man, that really sucks!”
Make sure a Hoover’s not around
Before releasing clucks.

For Every...

For every cup, a saucer;
For every hat, a head.
For everyone who’s tired,
Both a pillow and a bed.

For every book, a reader;
For every foot, a shoe.
For everyone who’s sad,
A chance to freshen and renew.

For every song, a singer;
For every play, a stage.
For everyone who’s trapped,
A key to open up the cage.

For every cut, a Band-Aid;
For every tear, a kiss.
For everyone who’s stressed,
A month when nothing is amiss.

For every bee, a flower;
For every breeze, a kite.
For everyone with things to say,
A chance to sit and write.

Critiques

When offering advice, it’s best,
So you won’t be forsaken,
To ponder just exactly how
Your guidance might be taken.

For uninvited judgment,
Even said with good intent,
Might be something the recipient
Could very well resent.

Critiques, although constructive,
Often stick in someone’s craw;
Not everyone appreciates
The spotlight on a flaw.

So I’d tread very lightly,
My objections kept inside,
‘Cause a wound to someone’s ego
Might be all that I’d provide.

"The Best Laid Plans"

Perfect plans just don’t exist
No matter how you try.
It’s possible to nail the gist
But other parts won’t fly.

For circumstances do contrive
To ruin the precision
With which you kept your hopes alive
The way you did envision.

“The best laid plans of mice and men”
Is such a brilliant quote;
When Robert Burns put down his pen,
He knew a gem he wrote.

Such simple words and so succinct,
They perfectly suffice
To mark their message, long-time inked,
For us and also mice.

A Luxury

Today was ninety-eight degrees;
At least that’s how it felt.
I’m shocked that I am still intact;
I thought that I would melt.

But I would take this kind of heat
For months, all in a row,
Instead of what was perfect weather
Twelve short years ago.

For from those bright blue skies above
The world came crashing down,
Releasing so much sorrow
In its tears we all could drown.

Complaining is a luxury
When there’s no glaring threat
And I feel fortunate to whine
About a little sweat.

Skeeved Out

I squeezed into a subway seat
So I was wedged between
A backpack someone wouldn’t move
And someone not too clean.

I tuned them out, began to read
But barely had the chance
When scruffy guy got going
With his hand inside his pants.

He wasn’t very subtle,
His intentions very clear
And no one in the subway
Had the guts to interfere.

So I got up and moved away
Before he could conclude,
But such a sleazy spectacle
Still left me quite unglued.

We put up with a lot on trains,
But all of us should scoff
At behavior meant for privacy –
And throw the jerk right off! 

Holeyness

No one really looks askance
When someone’s wearing holey pants
And rips may vary by degrees,
Especially around the knees.

There was a time if clothes were torn,
They ceased to be the ones you’d worn,
For clothing, ripped, made one look poor,
Without the cash to hit the store.

Then hippie days upset that rule
And worn-out ragged jeans looked cool.
We rarely changed our dungarees
And earned those windows for our knees.

But now some jeans come well-equipped
With shredded sections, neatly ripped;
Yet such a shortcut seems so strange,
A backwards step to signal change.

Preconceived Notions

I sometimes wonder if a monk
Succumbs and sinks into a funk;
Since he is lacking normal spunk,
Well, how is one to know?

The same for gurus – though they’re wise
When seen in solemn guru guise,
Perhaps they’d take us by surprise
Beneath the mistletoe.

And rocket scientists, so smart,
With so much knowledge to impart,
Quite possibly might fall apart
When playing tic-tac-toe.

For notions that are preconceived,
Despite what we have all believed,
Should from our psyches be retrieved
And given the heave-ho.

The Bipolar Bear

In Central Park, a polar bear
Would swim and swim and swim;
At least twelve hours every day
Was not enough for him.

His name was Gus and at the zoo
A therapist was sought
To see if this obsession
Could perhaps become untaught.

An animal behaviorist
To Central Park was lured
And he concluded, in the end,
That Gus was merely bored.

They gave him toys and hid his food
To occupy his mind
And slowly he began to leave
His figure eights behind.

Still, tourists and New Yorkers both
All loved to visit Gus,
'Cause after all, he seemed to be
Neurotic, just like us.

But sad to say, Gus passed away;
His age was twenty-seven.
Perhaps he's doing backstrokes
Up where polar bears have heaven.

The Scoop

Ice cream purists like theirs plain
With nary a scintilla
Of nuts or chips or sprinkles
To deface their pure vanilla.

I see their point but disagree;
Additions have their place
And hunks of fruit or chocolate
I can easily embrace.

A vein of peanut butter swirl
Is something I can savor;
When it’s embedded in a scoop,
It multiplies the flavor.

Some chocolate covered almonds
Or some coconutty shreds
Embellish like a garment sewn
With sparkly silver threads.

A burst of buried cherries,
Like a pirate’s secret treasure,
When uncovered unexpectedly
Can fill one up with pleasure.

Of course, to purists, such advice
Is worthy of ignoring.
To me, a plain vanilla cone
Is needlessly quite boring!

Pseudo Jews

I’m a pseudo Jew, are you?
Well, this is how you know:
Just once a year to temple
Is how often you will go.

Your house has a mezuzah
But so rarely do you kiss it,
If someone thought to steal it,
It would take a while to miss it.

When chomping on a burger,
You can bet it’s topped with Cheddar;
A crispy piece of bacon (treyf!)
Would make it even better.

On Chanukah you light the lights
And sing the dreidel song,
But only to the prayer’s first verse
Can you recite along.

Of course, you have a Seder,
Though you keep it nice and brief,
With Manischewitz Concord Grape
To prove your true belief.

On Rosh Hashanah, you will buy
A challah, soft and round,
And honey cake and brisket
Served with kasha in a mound.

You fast on Yom Kippur and yes,
You’ve thrown your sins away.
Perhaps you may reflect on this,
But likely you won’t pray.

The world is filled with pseudo Jews
But still, we are sincere
In wishing every Jew around
A happy, safe New Year!

Talking to the Air

People talking to themselves
When strolling down the street
At one time were the type of folks
You wouldn’t want to meet.

But ear buds linked to cell phones
Have upended that routine,
For everybody walks and talks
To listeners unseen.

So nowadays, when someone
Is conversing as he struts,
You can’t distinguish who is sane
From one who’s likely nuts.

Tennis Whites

There was a time when tennis players
Had to dress in white.
Appearing on the court in colors
Wouldn’t have been right.

But rules have changed and now we see
A medley of attire.
In fact, to be a fashion plate
Some players do aspire.

Both men and women choose to wear
Ensembles bright and bold.
A few stroll out in outfits
Rather shocking to behold.

Though some may yearn for former times
When whites were de rigueur,
To me, the freedom from those rules
Improves the court’s décor.

Up to Snuff

Everything can feel so tough
When someone isn’t up to snuff.
Your best may not be good enough
Although you try and try.

What often happens off the cuff,
As simple as a powder puff,
May suddenly seem raw and rough,
A truth you can’t deny.

So if you’re acting grim and gruff
Because you lack your normal stuff,
You just might not be up to snuff
And that’s the reason why.

Roadside Warning

A sign on the side of the highway
Provoked my eyes to pop,
‘Cause what it said was “Prison near,
So kindly do not stop.”

Of course, we kept on driving
But man, it made me think
And wonder just how many men
Have bolted from the clink.

Envision those escapees,
In their old-time stripy suits,
Just lurking on the roadside
With the warden in cahoots.

For if inmates, as intended,
Are locked up in cells with bars,
Then why post a dire warning
To the hordes of passing cars?

It’s a puzzle so perplexing
Who knows what it’s all about,
But I’m sure all drivers question
How the prisoners got out.