Tactile

Furry, silky, bumpy, scratchy,
Velvety or smooth –
Textures can repel, intrigue
Or comfort us and soothe.

Prickly, crinkly, soft and downy,
Sticky, cold or rough –
Some you can’t let go of;
Others – once might be enough.

Scruffy, woolly, stringy,
Slinky, satiny or sleek –
As we grow, so many textures
Lose their magic and mystique.

But just brush a pine tree’s needles
On a baby’s reaching hand
As you watch his face in wonder
And you’ll start to understand

There’s enchantment tucked in touches
And amazement we can feel,
Which a baby’s searching fingers
Can remind us and reveal.

My Notebook

I always have a notebook
That I tuck inside my bag.
If somehow I misplaced it,
That would really be a drag.

I use it for my daily writings
If I'm not at home;
No matter where I am, I'm thus
Prepared to write my poem.

To fit inside my pocketbook,
It must be small and light.
The pages must be lined, of course,
And I prefer them white.

It takes me months to use one up
And then I feel a thrill
As I start a fresh new notebook,
With its empty leaves to fill.

Terraceless

Some hotels have terraces.
Some hotels do not;
But I'm a guest at one
That's at an in-between those spot.


There clearly was a terrace
That was built outside my room
And every other room as well -
That's what you would assume.


But all the railings were removed,
The sliding doors sealed shut;
'Cause if you stepped outside and fell,
You'd win your lawsuit - but


I wonder why the rails are gone -
What problem was addressed?
A hurricane, an earthquake
Or a suicidal guest?


The fact is, though, that jutting floor
Is like a little tease
And worst of all, I can't enjoy
The breath of any breeze.


So Mr. Marriott, I think
This place needs a revision;
To be or not to be a terrace -
That is your decision.

Siblings

You can separate some siblings
So the miles pile up between 'em
And the months or years go by
Since the last time you have seen 'em...


But the thread is still connected -
There's a deep and lasting bond
And the distance disappears
Like you've waved a magic wand.


There might be a gale of laughter
From a random word you spoke
While your spouses stare in wonder,
Just not privy to the joke.


You may not see one another
For another chunk of weeks
But the time you have together
To a true connection speaks.

My Thighs

My thighs were always way too fat
Back in my younger days.
It really wasn’t fair at all
Since minis were the craze.

But that was many years ago;
I’ve lost a bit of weight
And all of me is thin enough
So styles cooperate.

Except I never realized
When I thought that life was simpler
That older thighs, despite their size,
Are ugly, loose and dimpler!

In the Passenger Seat

Not all music soothes the soul;
I find some downright grating.
At times like those, a wish for silence
Isn’t overstating.

I’m really not a fan of rap
And opera’s not my lingo,
But rock or blues or classical
And certain jazz – well, bingo!

Yet even in my chosen genre,
Some songs I can’t take
And when my husband drives,
The music choice is his to make.

And so I often fall asleep
To music that’s a bore;
The savage beast within me
Just can’t take it anymore.

The easiest solution,
Which will help my spirits thrive,
Is to commandeer the radio –
But then I have to drive!

Vantage Point

Things we take for granted
Might be treasures in disguise
When reflected from the vantage point
Within a baby's eyes.

From a teapot to a squirrel
Or an airplane, flag or bird,
There's amazement when you offer
Explanation with a word.

You can watch the wheels start turning
As the pieces start to click
And vocabulary blossoms;
Repetition makes it stick.

For the world is filled with wonder
To those figuring things out;
It's a joy to be a part of
Teaching what it's all about.

Day's End

At the end of the day
When the sun starts to set,
It's as lovely outside
As it ever will get.

Though I'm partial to morning,
When light's just begun,
There's a calm and a beauty
When day's nearly done.

If the day were a sandwich
For me to be fed,
I would pass on the filling
And savor the bread.

The World Cup

The world's abuzz with soccer
Though I couldn't give a hoot.
I wouldn't even have a clue
For which team I should root.

The bars are packed with rousing fans;
I don't begrudge their cheers,
But I prefer a tennis match
To savor with my beers.

I'd also watch the Yankees play
'Cause baseball's what I know,
Though baseball-haters claim the game's
Inordinately slow.

So while the teams do battle
With the World Cup as the prize,
I'll find a book or other show
To occupy my eyes.

The Longest Day

Today, they say’s, the longest day
So stop to sniff the flowers,
But what I need is not more daylight –
I’d prefer more hours.

I always have much more to do
Than time in which to do it;
With just another hour or two,
I’m sure I’d zip right through it.

Yet still, it’s nice to have more time
To soak up all that sun;
By tomorrow, in a teensy way,
The shortening’s begun.

Donations

Donate to a worthy cause
And this is what’s in store –
A feeling that you’ve done some good…
Until they ask for more.

For one donation’s not enough;
Requests will keep arriving
And soon the word gets out
That other groups you are depriving.

So charities you’ve never heard of
Send you their appeals
And though you toss them out, you really
Don’t like how that feels.

Your name’s not Gates or Buffett, though,
So it’s not really fair
To think that if you don’t respond
It means that you don’t care.

It’s nice to donate what you can
But not to every pitch,
For those requests should filter
To the really, really rich.

Hospice

An acquaintance of mine
(More the friend of a friend)
Was just told that her life
May be nearing its end.

She is ready for hospice,
Her doctor suggested;
She cannot go home,
Which is what she requested.

Her husband bailed out
When she first became sick,
Taking up with a lover
He found rather quick.

But perhaps I’m unfair –
Maybe illness aside,
He just fell out of love
Or what she could provide.

Still, right now she’s alone
At the end of her days,
Though her friends rally ‘round
In restorative ways.

It’s so awful to hear
Of a person you’ve known
Who will soon be laid out
With her name on a stone.

It’s a jarring reminder
Of what we deny
That as time marches on,
We will all get to die.

Anticipation

Awaiting an event is tough
And if it’s one you’re dreading,
Those pangs of nerves will multiply
And rapidly start spreading.

Scenarios of doom abound
As stress invades each pore
And sleepless nights do battle with
The nightmare at your door.

Yet even for occasions
Which you can’t wait to occur,
Anticipation makes you more
On edge than you’d prefer.

No longer can you focus on
The things you could before
And all your other obligations
Somehow you ignore.

Whatever you’re anticipating
Keeps you all a’jangle
Until the day arrives at last
And nerves can disentangle.

Fanatic

I’m a fan of fans, I am,
In any shape or form,
From window box to ceiling-hung
Or those beyond the norm.

They gently stir a breeze around
To keep the heat at bay
And when the sweat starts dripping down,
They help it dry away.

On days when it is brutal out,
A.C.’s the better choice,
Yet fans don’t get the dues they’re owed
So let me be their voice.

Remember folding paper fans
When you were just a kid?
I always felt so grateful
For the cooling that they did.

And in my first apartment
When I couldn’t pay for air,
A box fan in my window
Made it comfy to be there.

So become a fan fanatic
And acknowledge this device
Which won’t cool us off completely,
But enough to feel quite nice.

Pluck

In life, it’s either pluck or luck
That helps you get ahead.
If lacking both, you might as well
Just not get out of bed.

For when you’re stuck in mire and muck,
In need of some unsticking,
You can’t depend on providence
As time just keeps on ticking.

The dumbest cluck may try to duck
When problems keep on pelting,
But just a touch of gumption
May prevent your core from melting.

We all get struck and have to suck
Some lemons while we’re living,
For most of us missed out
When luck and pluck were up for giving.

Compromise

It's no surprise that compromise
Can solve so many woes,
From visions 'bout decisions
To uniting former foes.

Don't merely stay with Column A,
But choose a bit from B;
The middle ground might bring you 'round
To true serenity.

A little give can help you live
At peace within your soul
And what you'll find inside your mind
Will help to make you whole.

So take a breath, for life or death
Won't hinge on your conclusion,
But if your bent is to relent,
There's promise in profusion.

Handwritten

I used to force my kids to write
A thank you for a gift;
For surely, the recipient
Would like that little lift.

A few quick words were all it took
So people understood
Their efforts were acknowledged
And they hopefully felt good.

The written note is fading out;
To some it is taboo.
A phone call or a text or tweet
Or email seems to do.

I’ve used those, too, from time to time
But if I had to vote,
My rousing choice would always be
A sweet handwritten note.

Iffy

The sun is playing peek-a-boo;
It’s hiding ‘neath a cloud,
While waiting raindrops gather
All together in a crowd.

Uncertain weather’s baffling
For who knows what to wear?
But rain or shine, humidity
Is hanging in the air.

I’m heading out not knowing
If the sun will show its face,
But I’m old enough to carry
My umbrella – just in case!

Parachute Jump

If you are turning 90
And your life is in a slump,
Just grab a parachute, like Bush,
And have yourself a jump.

The elder Bush no longer walks
But all he needs to start
Is a sturdy chute, a plane, a pilot
And a lot of heart.

His first jump was in World War II,
His last at 85
And here he is at 90, shouting,
“Hey world! I’m alive!”

Though I never liked his politics,
This jump’s got me impressed;
Still, I’ll bet his doctor, watching,
Suffers cardiac arrest!

In the Park

Another night in Central Park
For Shakespeare, as the sky turns dark.
My husband made the tickets hap,
A bonny feather in his cap.

A lovely evening, weather-wise;
The park, a forest in disguise.
The actors, practiced, prepped and proud;
The audience, a New York crowd.

Yet I’m distracted from delight
Because my poem I’ve yet to write.
So here I sit before the show,
Just hoping that the words will flow.

My pencil’s poised upon the page
As actors amble on the stage
And magically, the rhymes arrive –
I am the gladdest gal alive.

I thank the stars right to the max.
From this point on, I can relax
And thrill tonight to “Much Ado…”
From this, a spot-on perfect view!

Faces

Two eyes, two ears,
One nose, one mouth
And all arranged
From north to south…

Yet with a subtle
Tiny tweak
Each person’s look
Is quite unique.

The laws of math
Can so astound,
Since all these faces
Do abound…

But combinations
Guarantee
That no one looks
Like you or me.

Except, of course,
When next of kin,
Enwombed together,
Is a twin.

Garbage

In the city, garbage must
Be tossed inside a chute,
Recycled items piled and wrapped
Or boxed or bagged, to boot.

You’re free to daily chuck your trash –
More often if you choose;
The room where garbage goes is cleaned
Each day by building crews.

But in the suburbs, things are done
In quite a different way.
Your trash is taken once a week
And folks think that’s okay.

It’s all what you’re accustomed to –
Each has both pro and con,
But when I take my garbage out,
I like it to be gone!

Distilled

Time spent with a baby
Is like liquid that's distilled,
For the bad has all but vanished
And contentment is fulfilled.

As a Nana, I'm rewarded
With the giggles and the smiles
And the outside world seems far away - 
At least a million miles.

For the two of us together
(And with Grandpa, sometimes three)
Have a bond that any outside person
Easily could see.

There is absolutely nothing
That can really quite compare
To the hours I spend with Henry - 
Time that's precious, sweet and rare.

California Chrome

Tonight they held the Belmont Stakes
And California Chrome
Was thought to be the one to bring
A triple trophy home.

He'd won the Derby, Preakness, too
And he was in contention
To win the Triple Crown at last - 
That sure was the intention.

Alas, the horse did not succeed;
The pressure must have tripped him,
For he slowed down despite the fact
The jockey clearly whipped him.

So now it's thirty-seven years
Without a Triple Crown
And those whose hopes were highest
Must be feeling pretty down.

Grape Soda

My seatmate on the subway
Started taking out his lunch,
Pushing dreadlocks back and headphones
As his sandwich he did munch.

In his right hand was a soda,
Flavored grape, so said the can.
(By the way, on food and drink in subways
There exists a ban.)

I was sitting on his right as he
Quite deftly popped the top
And although the train was lurching,
Well, he never spilled a drop.

Which was fortunate for me because
My pants and top were white
And some purple soda speckles
Would have spoiled my day and night.

But we shouldn’t judge our neighbors
Or expect them to fulfill
Every purple drink’s desire,
Which is itching for a spill.

Mrs. Hechtman's Roses

Mrs. Hechtman lived next door
And when her roses bloomed,
She always brought us a bouquet
To keep our house perfumed.

The blossoms, of the palest pink,
Were dangerously thorned
Yet in my mother’s crystal vase,
They kept our house adorned.

I sometimes helped as Mrs. Hechtman
Chose which buds to snip,
A grown-up chore that caused my heart
To swell with pride and skip.

Those roses hadn’t crossed my mind
For many, many years
But when a memory’s that deep,
It seldom disappears.

A garden that I passed today
Brought Mrs. Hechtman back,
Her snipping scissor in her hand,
The stems all in a stack.

A sweeter bunch of flowers
Never sat upon my table.
I’d thank dear Mrs. Hechtman –
Ah, if only I were able.

Intermission

Intermission – get on line,
Which mostly seems to crawl,
Just to have the pleasure of
Two minutes in the stall.

Do your business, wash your hands
And climb two flights of stairs,
Then squeeze past people who won’t move
And fix you with their glares.

Broadway shows are special treats
But will be better when
The aisles and women’s restrooms
Aren’t blueprinted by men!

Historical

Saw some quilts constructed
In the Civil Wartime years,
One made by a soldier,
Not as strange as it appears.

Cloth was cut from uniforms,
With both sides represented –
Harmony in textiles
Way before some men repented.

Wonder what that soldier thought
While sewing up his stitches,
Maybe as he hid himself
In foxholes or in ditches?

Was he thinking of his home,
His family or his honey?
Worrying about the war
Or keeping warm or money?

Could he ever picture
That the quilt that he created
Would be hung in a museum
With admirers belated?

As I wandered the exhibit
I was taken back in time
Where my musings and imaginings
Were stitched into this rhyme.

Backyard

A peaceful backyard in the ‘burbs,
With grass and birds and trees;
And watching from the window,
I saw leaves dance in the breeze.

Then suddenly a cat appeared
(I’ve seen it there before)
And it was playing cat and mouse,
Though I feared something more.

I stepped outside and realized
My suspicions were quite sound
For a chipmunk was the creature
Being batted all around.

When the cat looked up and saw me,
Then the game came to an end.
With the chipmunk in its mouth,
That feline vanished ‘round the bend.

Plainly peace can be deceiving
Yet it’s really rather chilling
To watch birds and bees and breezes
And to also see a killing.

Unanswered Text

Send a text
And what comes next
Perhaps is a reply...
But maybe not
And you know what?
You'll have no reason why.

Was not received
Or someone's peeved
And chooses to ignore it...
'Cause on the screen
What you might mean
Has no way to explore it.

So what to do?
I've thought it through
And think you should resend it...
But that advice
May not suffice,
Thus I cannot defend it.

Instead I wait
In such a state
That keeps my nerves a'jangle...
And check my phone
'Cause one alone
Can make those nerves untangle.