The Treats

All the candy’s waiting.
I sniff that chocolate smell;
But Halloween is drifting by
And no one’s rung the bell.

M&M’s and Kit Kats
Will weave their magic spell,
With Krackels, Mr. Goodbars
And those other ones they sell.

I picked out all my favorites;
In that I do excel,
So if no trick-or-treaters come,
It’s really just as well.

Getting it Done

The page is blank and mocking;
I have no words to fill it.
If no idea comes knocking,
It’s not like I can will it.

I’m wiped out and I’m wearied.
The day’s been long and busy;
And if somebody queried,
I would say I’m almost dizzy.

Yet still, I have to finish
And compose my daily rhyme.
My sharpness might diminish
If I take a break in time.

I won’t harbor the illusion
That this poem will be the best,
But upon its near conclusion,
I’ll unwind, relax and rest.

Waiting for Quiet

A waiting room should be a place
Of quiet and of peace,
Where all unnecessary noise
Should absolutely cease.

In many cases, signs announce
That cell phone use is banned,
But often there is something else
I do not understand –

TV’s that cannot be turned off;
They’re ON and how they blare!
I’d love to try to mute them
But of course, I wouldn’t dare.

Some genius once decided
That for those who have to wait,
A television would be something
They’d appreciate.

But surely I am not alone
In wishing for some quiet
And others might agree with me –
If they would only try it!

Fluent

It’s nice to be fluent
In more than one tongue,
So you can converse
When you are among

People from places
You’d like to go
And ask them whatever
You need to know.

But what I’d prefer
(This might make you laugh)
Is the version of fluent
That starts with af-.

Interference

Whether in a baseball game
Or in the span of life,
Interference often causes
Agita* or strife.

Even when one’s motives
May be innocent or pure,
A casual observer
Or an ump might not be sure.

So consequences will result
When someone interferes,
And sometimes the effects may last
For months or even years.

*indigestion; aggravation

If the Shoe Fits...

You read or hear some words and think
“That isn’t very flattering;”
But then your heart is on the brink
Of pittering and pattering.

For possibly, those sentiments
Contain a little clue
That give you just the slightest sense
They might apply to you.

Perhaps you’re being paranoid
Or worried without cause;
It’s easier to just avoid
Those words with fangs and claws.

But sometimes you just have to shrug
And flash a grin and bear it,
‘Cause even if it’s kinda snug,
If that shoe fits – then wear it!

Picking a Pumpkin

When picking a pumpkin, I want one that’s round,
The fattest, most corpulent one to be found.
It needn’t be heavy or massive in size,
But shape is a place where I won’t compromise.

The color, of course, is important, as well.
It has to be orange - no washed-out pastel.
I’m sorry for specimens speckled with green;
They just do not make the cut for Halloween.

And lastly, before I discover my gem,
I search ‘til I find one with strong, curvy stem.
I’ll never select one that’s missing its handle –
(It comes in quite handy when planting the candle).

When I’ve found the one that fulfills all my needs,
I’ll scoop out the insides and toast up the seeds.
My husband will carve out a devilish grin
And our Jack ‘O will welcome the holiday in.

Crossing that Bridge

When we look into the future,
Lots of question marks abound;
The most important one, of course,
Is if we’ll be around.

Assuming that we will, we might
Commence with making plans;
But sometimes people vacillate,
For looming are the spans…

The bridges – which we cannot cross
Until they’re in our sights.
Preparing things too early
Feeds disaster’s appetites.

And so we wait and hesitate
And maybe take a loss,
‘Cause ‘til we come upon that bridge,
We cannot get across.

Henry's Hiccups

Henry had the hiccups
But he didn’t seem upset.
A baby doesn’t realize
How annoying they can get.

He’s too young for the water trick
And much too young to scare,
So he just had the hiccups
‘Til at last they weren’t there.

He cried from hunger and from gas
And maybe lack of sleep;
Though Henry’s hiccups bothered me,
They caused him not a peep.

Behind the Walls

Behind the walls I hear the sound
Of someone’s loud TV.
I’m rarely in this room, by day,
So it won’t bother me.

But it reminds me that we live
Connected, side by side,
With only hints of others’ lives
That snatches do provide:

A glimpse of furniture, perhaps,
A smattering of noise;
But not enough to clue us in
To problems or to joys.

Paul Simon said it best, that
One man’s ceiling’s someone’s floor
And often, of our neighbors,
We learn not a whole lot more.

So all we really know about
The folks behind the walls
Is likely to intrigue us
Just as much as it appalls.

The Ride

When someone else is at the wheel,
There’s not much you can say
‘Cause no one likes a back-seat driver
Getting in the way.

A passenger cannot control
The route or time or speed
And so restraint and patience
Are the virtues that you’ll need.

You may be in a bus or cab
Or van or car or train
Or anyplace where someone is
In charge of the terrain.

If you are not the captain,
Keep your censuring inside;
Just take a breath, sit back, relax
And tolerate the ride.

Autumn Afternoon

Bright blue sky, fluffy clouds;
People in the park.
Warming sun, gentle breeze;
Hours ‘til it’s dark.

Craft fair on the avenue;
Pumpkin ice cream cone.
Everybody seems content,
Including those alone.

Orange leaves peeping through;
Folks and canines pass.
Families with strollers stroll
Or picnic on the grass.

Places where the climate
Stays the same are not for me.
Autumn in New York, I think’s
The perfect place to be.

B.Y.O.B.

I love to find an eatery
Which beckons with B.Y.O.B.
For when I’m going out to dine,
It’s nice to bring my favorite wine.

They may assess a corkage fee,
A wont with which I disagree,
But that won’t serve to undermine
The welcome in their grand design.

Yet if I fess up, truthfully,
B.Y.O.B. appeals to me
Because a bottle that is mine
Will likely cost $6.99!

Foresight

When microwaves came out, I thought
That I would never buy one.
It took me quite a while before
I even dared to try one.

And when my husband went and bought
That costly first P.C.,
I viewed it as a waste and something
Of no use to me.

The same applied to cell phones;
I just couldn’t comprehend
How they’d become a part of life
On which I would depend.

I wonder what they’ll think of next –
But likely, they’ll debut it
And, with my lack of foresight,
I am sure that I’ll pooh-pooh it!

Shinola

I don’t know where Shinola is
Or if it does exist,
But rumors of it, all these years,
Have managed to persist.

For people putting others down
Make reference to it,
Assuming that they can’t distinguish
This poor town from shit.

I’m hoping that Shinolians
On this are none the wiser,
But that explains why you can’t find
This town on Trip Advisor!

( I always thought that Shinola was a place,
but after writing this poem, I discovered that
it's actually the name of a shoe polish which 
is no longer in existence. Now the expression
makes a lot more sense!)

Like Riding a Bicycle

Certain things you don’t forget;
They somehow get ingrained.
No matter when you learned them,
Deep inside they have remained.

Like how to burp a baby,
Swim a lap or sew a stitch;
The skillset’s there, so you can
Pull them off without a hitch.

The classic case in point, I guess,
Is how to ride a bike,
Which most of us were taught when young,
Quite possibly a tyke.

Though many years may slip away
Before we ride again,
We hop right in the saddle,
Like we first did way back when.

And after just a wobble
To make sure that we are steady,
We find that after months or years,
One blink and we are ready.

They say it’s hard to teach
An older dog a brand-new trick,
But if we’re lucky, lots of what we’ve learned
Has seemed to stick.

Ms. Automated

The automated voice announced that
“You are next in line.”
If only you believed her,
Everything would be just fine.

The minutes tick on by and still,
You’re waiting on the phone,
Ms. Automated each few minutes
Tossing you a bone.

“Our service representatives
Are busily at work
And helping other customers.”
(So you feel like a jerk.)

“But do not fret – you’re next in line
And then we’ll take your call.”
Ms. Automated – wish I’d never
Heard your voice at all!

Bright-Eyed and...

A squirrel with an acorn clenched
Between his tiny teeth
Ran past me to some shrubbery
And hid himself beneath.

He looked so cute it made me think
Suppose he was a rat;
I wouldn’t like it half as much
In nearby habitat.

Though both are rodents, in this case
Some prejudice prevails,
For charming or repellent seems
To rest upon their tails!

The Eighties

My daughter wondered how things differed
Back when she was born,
Aside from styles of music
Or the clothing that was worn.

We didn’t have computers then.
“What did you do?” she gasped.
We researched in the library,
A concept she’s not grasped.

We had no cell phones. “How’d you reach
The people that you called?”
We used a land line or a pay phone;
She was just appalled.

We didn’t have CD’s or movies
Out on DVD’s.
She thought that was hilarious
And answered, “Come on, please!”

The changes don’t seem too extreme
But still, it made us grin,
That what we take for granted now –
Well, hasn’t always been.

I guess when centenarians
Think back and reminisce
They must be thinking – all those years
Have brought us up to – this?

Affirmation

We cook a meal or buy a gift
Or stitch a lovely quilt,
But if there’s no acknowledgement,
We feel our spirits wilt.

We sing a song or act a scene
Or glaze a pot or paint;
Indifference coats accomplishment
With just a tinge of taint.

We often put our souls out there
In rapt anticipation
Of compliments or patted backs
Or nods of admiration.

But doing what we do just needs
An audience of one,
For only we can truly judge
The work that we have done.

We run a race or write a poem
And know that we’ve succeeded
And really that should be enough –
No affirmation needed.

But human nature rears its head
And laughs at such displays,
Reminding us that everybody
Likes a bit of praise.

On a Crowded Bus

On a crowded bus I watch
A tide of texting thumbs.
No one young’s immune –
It seems that everyone succumbs.

Older folk read papers
Or a magazine or book;
Many simply close their eyes
Or wear a vacant look.

Younger people can’t survive
Without their techno-tools.
Losing them, I fear, would make them
Flail like helpless fools.

Somehow, in the days of old,
Pre-smartphone, way back when,
We occupied ourselves with books
Or paper and a pen.

Or, even better, we could sit
And think or dream or muse;
Trying to explain that now,
I think, would just confuse.

I once was taught that human thumbs
Made us the better beast,
But watching all those texters,
All my admiration’s ceased.

Risible

When words defy the grammar rules,
In spelling or in sound,
It’s easy to feel foolish,
Or at least that’s what I’ve found.

Today the word was “risible.”
I’d never heard it said,
So I employed a long “i”
When a short one’s used instead.

My references were visor, rising,
Wise, surprise and more
But indivisible (as in the pledge)
Was at its core.

I guess I learned a lesson
Though I’ve known it all along –
You shouldn’t make assumptions
‘Cause most likely, you’ll be wrong!

Sweet and Salty

There once was a king who would eat
Exclusively things that were sweet.
            His chefs were at fault
            If he tasted salt
So their spicings were very discreet.

On the other hand, there was his queen,
Who favored a sav’ry cuisine.
            She liked her food salty
            Or dishes were faulty;
The cooks were betwixt and between!

On the day of their princely son’s birth,
She announced, “He’s the salt of the earth!”
            But the monarchs did meet
            And agreed he was sweet
So the kingdom rejoiced in their mirth.

On Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die, Cherish, Perish

Reading David Rakoff’s book,
In rhyming couplets, really shook
Me way down deep inside my core;
I read and read and wanted more.

A novel all in poetry?
I think he wrote it just for me,
For who could love it more than I?
I’m sure that you can guess the why.

The brilliant rhymings all surpass,
In creativity and sass,
The best that I have ever read;
I wish I’d written them instead.

The author, sadly, died before
His novel hit the selling floor.
Oh, how I wish I’d had the chance
To tell him how his rhyme enchants.

So I will spread the word around,
A fellow-rhymer, honor-bound,
That here’s a book that all MUST read,
To knock your socks off, guaranteed!

Erase

As a writer, I embrace,
To help me when I’m way off base,
A pencil with, in proper place,
A pink expunging saving grace.

For up my sleeve, it is the ace
Which helps me more than just a trace.
Yes, I’d be lost if in this space
I was not able to erase.

We pencil users must keep pace
With techno-geeks or face disgrace.
Erasers keep us in the race.
Cut to the chase – I rest my case!

Grief

There’s disbelief in newfound grief;
The hurt is raw and aching.
To turn a leaf or get relief,
One’s heart cannot be breaking.

It’s not a crime to need more time
Before one’s feeling stable;
But it’s a climb to reach one’s prime
When sorrow’s on the table.

Yet wounds do heal and then reveal
A toughness that surprises;
For each ordeal helps unconceal
The strength that one disguises.

Genius

One day I'm a genius;
The next I'm dumb as dirt.
If you are in agreement, well,
My feelings won't be hurt.

The scope of my intelligence
And which way I will skew
Has nothing whatsoever
To connect with my IQ.

The reason's very simple,
For I filled in every square
Of Friday's crossword puzzle - 
Bam! The answers were right there.

But today's a different story
As the empty boxes mock;
And nothing's in my brain except
The ticking of the clock.

At least again tomorrow
In the Sunday puzzle's sprawl,
I will have the chance to prove
I am a genius after all.

Glitches

Life is full of glitches
And obstructions and snafus
Disseminated in our paths
To challenge and confuse.

For every snag we have to seek
A way around or angle
To help us to negotiate
The trick to disentangle.

Existence has its highs, but still
It’s basically a bitch,
‘Cause anytime the sailing’s smooth,
There’s bound to be a glitch.

A Bit More Time

I don’t need to reach the age
When I must use a walker.
That would be hard, anyway,
Since I am a New Yorker.

Ninety candles on my cake
I never planned to see;
And neither did I think there’d be
An eighty year old me.

My parents both died rather young;
I thought I’d follow suit.
Genetics may not matter, though;
The verdict still is moot.

But I would like a bit more time
To see my grandson grow.
I’m sure most people feel the same
When they’ve been called to go.

We can’t control our date of death
Or measure out our years;
And as we age, we find ourselves
Succumbing to our fears.

Though what I’m feeling strongly
May be looked upon as greed,
A bit more time upon this earth
Is what I want and need.

Tunnel Vision

Tunnel vision does apply
When someone’s really sick.
Just try to change the topic –
Nothing else, you’ll find, will stick.

Prepare to hear a litany
Of symptoms and of cures,
While thinking all the while you’re glad
Those problems aren’t yours.

Of course, you’re sympathetic
To another’s aggravation,
But sometimes you’re bombarded with
Just too much information.

You listen and you nod your head,
Relieved when you must go
And pray that you will never share
Your own account of woe.

'Tisn't the Season

Walmart has its Christmas trees
For sale, for goodness’ sake!
Guess they won’t dry out, though,
‘Cause, of course, those trees are fake.

But hey, it’s just October first,
With short-sleeved shirts still worn.
The stores have barely gotten in
Their stock of candy corn.

Celebrate the orange first
Before the red and green;
And keep in mind that Chanukah,
This year, falls in-between.

But many people just can’t wait
For Christmas spending sprees,
So chompers-at-the-bit, enjoy,
For Walmart sure agrees!