Recipes of Old

The chicken soup’s a’boil,
Fluffy matzoh balls on tap.
We’ll use lots of eggs and oil
By the time we call a wrap.

All the pots and pans are waiting,
And the cookie sheets as well,
For the food we are creating
Which tradition does compel.

As we roast and bake and simmer
For this Friday’s festive meal,
I feel more than just a glimmer
Of this holiday’s appeal.

There’ll be dishes on the table
Made from recipes of old
And each taste will thus enable
Reminiscence to take hold.

Listening to "Layla"

Seven decades old today
And years away from Cream,
Eric Clapton, on guitar,
Will always reign supreme.

Listening to “Layla,”
I’m amazed it sounds so fresh,
Like the man himself were standing here
Before me, in the flesh.

A rocker keeps on rocking
Often to the crowd’s lament
But in Clapton’s case, quite clearly,
Time has barely made a dent!

First Bite

A child from the 'burbs on a Big Apple trip
Found it all more than slightly exciting -
The buses, the taxis, the swings and the slide
All seemed magically more than inviting.

A glorious day on his grandparents' turf
For a long-overdue city taste
Gave this nana a glow and a grin ear to ear
That I hope will be echoed posthaste.

Disaster

Why does disaster
Come oh, so much faster
Than happenings flowing with joy?
A plane crash or fire
With death does conspire
To enter our lives and destroy.

Just hearing such madness
Imbues us with sadness
No matter if we are involved;
But while we’re existing
This pattern’s persisting,
A puzzle not easily solved.

To Serve

In restaurants, the food is served;
In tennis, it’s a ball.
In prison, it’s a stretch of time;
To jurors, it’s a call.

We serve our country, serve our guests
And serve at someone’s side;
We serve as ushers or as maids
To march before a bride.

We’re served a summons or a suit
To answer to the law
And sometimes, justice being served
Provides a deal that’s raw.

In life, however, oftentimes
What I, in fact, observe,
Is that we rarely get what we
Believe that we deserve.

In the Cockpit

In the cockpit, in the air,
The pilot’s in control,
The safety of the passengers
His most important goal.

His second in command is there
In case he needs assistance,
No matter what the weather,
Destination or the distance.

When traveling, I never think
About the cockpit crew.
I just assume that they will do
What they’re supposed to do.

But hearing of this deadly crash
And what has been surmised
May stir up much more panic
Than can likely be disguised.

When buckled in our seats, though,
We’ve no choice but to adjust
And presume those in the cockpit
Are deserving of our trust.

Giving Advice

It’s tricky when you give advice
Without somebody asking,
For even if your words are heard,
The truth takes some unmasking.

It’s easy overstepping bounds
To offer an opinion
But often, you just trespass
On what isn’t your dominion.

It’s hard to know what someone thinks
For feelings might stay hidden
And honesty, though touted,
In the real world seems forbidden.

So you should tread most carefully
When offering advice,
‘Cause tipping apple carts sure isn’t
Worth the sacrifice.

Endless Loop

I didn’t have a movie camera
When my kids were small,
So photos captured moments
We hoped someday to recall.

The pictures mostly highlight
Celebrations or events,
But ordinary life a picture
Rarely represents.

We whipped the Kodak out on trips
Or holidays or meets,
An average day not worthy
Of a photograph’s conceits.

Today, though, any cell phone
Can record an endless loop
So each moment of a childhood
Is a chance to point and swoop.

What I wonder is what happens
When these children come of age.
Will they want to see their lives unfold
At every single stage?

More than likely these recordings,
Very special when debuted,
Will be rapidly forgotten
And won’t ever be re-viewed.

Changing the Sheets

How often someone changes sheets
Is really not discussed.
It’s certain, though, that everybody
Does so, as we must.

I knew a woman once whose bed
Had fresh sheets every day.
Obsessive? Yes, but she preferred
To do things her own way.

In college dorms, the bedding might
Remain in place all term.
Imagine all the multitudes of
Every type of germ!

I once was told of dinner parties
Where the food was spread,
Instead of on a cloth, upon
The sheet from someone’s bed.

Most people likely make the switch
On laundry day each week,
So sheets may well be wrinkled
But it’s doubtful that they’ll reek.

No matter when you swap the sheets,
It’s really up to you,
As long as whom you’re sleeping with
Approves of when you do.

Sunday

Sunday always struck me as
The ending of the week,
The final chance for chores
Or the relaxing you might seek.

But calendars put Sunday first
As if it's at the start,
Which also means the weekend
Somehow splits itself apart.

Depending on your point of view
Perception surely bends,
So Sunday is the day the week
Begins or, maybe, ends. 

Free Banana

We stopped for gas; the mini-mart
Was advertising wares.
I wasn’t hungry, had no thirst
And so I thought, who cares?

But then a sign jumped out at me;
I wondered – is it true?
Just buy this brand of water
And we’ve got a gift for you –

A free banana! I said, Huh?
This seems a bit surreal.
But hey, I guess, to some at least,
There must be some appeal!

Stuck on the Subway

A sudden stop, the engines shut
As folks glance up from reading.
Some shrug, some cluck and others (me!)
Have faces pinched and pleading.

A minute passes, maybe two,
But then there’s an announcement:
“A passenger is sick, so we
Are stuck,” is the pronouncement.

I take a breath and try my best
To read my magazine
And block the fact I’m in a tunnel,
Trapped and in-between.

Beside me is a six year old,
His first time on a train,
With unrelenting questions
Which could drive a soul insane.

His presence is a godsend, though,
A wonderful distraction,
Allowing me to settle down
And fake a calm reaction.

At last, the motor rumbles on
And life is back on track,
Preventing what I dreaded –
An anxiety attack.

I wonder, though, about the rider
Whom they said was sick;
My heart’s still drumming
But that guy’s recovery was quick!

To Sit and Sew

In quilting class, I sit and sew
And wonder where the stress did go
For somehow, I just seem to switch
From tense to calm with every stitch.

The needle pokes and pulls the thread
Which follows where my fingers led
As brightly patterned cloth succumbs;
It matters not what it becomes.

The end result is less the goal
Than knowing I am in control
Of all the pieces I’ve combined,
My creativity defined.

My work is slow but I don’t care;
I’m happy when I’m sitting there,
For thoughts of angst or wrath or guilt
All vanish when I sit and quilt.

Passersby

Some are strutting; others drag,
Promenade or amble,
Every one a puzzle
We’re unable to unscramble.

Some look cocky, others sad,
Lost in their reflections,
Heading off, in head and foot,
In varying directions.

Some are spiffy, others drab,
Yet a first impression
Isn’t quite enough to gauge
Contentment or depression.

In the city, passersby
Cross paths but what we see
Will not provide the clues to solve
Each private mystery.

Bagpipes

They’re mournful at a wake or when
A person’s laid to rest,
Yet there are those who say their sound
Is something to detest.

But line them up and hear them played
By marchers wearing kilts
And suddenly you see the green
And hear those Irish lilts.

Oh, it’s a joy to witness
The St. Patrick’s Day Parade
And watch the bands from every police
And fireman brigade.

The pipers always lead the way,
Their plaintive notes on high;
The green-clad crowd applauds
As all the marchers pass them by.

I wouldn’t want to listen
To a bagpipe every day,
But on the 17^th of March, I’m glad
I get to hear them play.

Burning Lips

If you clicked on this poem
And expected to see
A paean devoted to passion,
You can stop reading now
‘Cause that’s not what this is –
I can’t even say “after a fashion.”

It’s instead a complaint
To my husband the chef,
‘Cause he constantly peppers the food.
Though I’m grateful he cooks
My poor lips pay the price
For they burn hours after I’ve chewed!

Roadmap

I look into the mirror
And feel sad at what I see –
A wrinkled replica of
A more vibrant, younger me.

On certain days, it’s not so bad;
Perhaps the change is subtle?
But looking at a photo album,
There is the rebuttal.

For just a year or two ago,
I think I looked okay,
At least a whole lot better
Than how I appear today.

But hey – a face is like a map
That marks the paths we’ve chosen
And all the ruts and potholes, well,
They sure beat decomposin’!

Thirst

We thirst for knowledge, yearn for peace;
Pray that all our problems cease.
Some are thirsty for success;
Others hope to lessen stress.

Every thirst cannot be quenched;
Some stay parched though they look drenched.
But to me, one thing is clear –
By five o’clock, I thirst for beer!

The Other Side of Peak

When bread goes stale and soda flat
And milk begins congealing
Or mold appears on hunks of cheese,
It’s really not appealing.

We know that chirping smoke detectors’
Batteries have died
And lightbulbs’ lives are over
When a rattle’s heard inside.

It’s obvious when objects
Are no longer at their best.
A glance, a sniff, a noise or lack
Confirms what we have guessed.

But how to tell when humans
Reach the other side of peak?
They’ve bypassed retro and can now
Be classified antique!

Shopping for Sheets

Long ago, when buying sheets,
The task was kind of fun.
I looked at the designs
Until I found my favorite one.

A few had stripes or flowers
Or were patterned or were dotted;
I waited ‘til I found a set
With which I was besotted.

But nowadays, it’s such a drag.
They’re monochrome instead,
With just one boring color;
How can that perk up a bed?

There’s also something else today
To take into account –
How many threads your sheets should have –
You choose the right amount.

So now I’m touching samples –
Like I’d really know by feeling –
To ascertain which texture
I decide is most appealing.

Aside from price, there’s just one thing
I simply have to find –
Unless they say “No iron,”
I will leave those sheets behind!

The Master of Ceremonies

What a privilege! What a treat!
My thumbs are thumbs-up thumbing
Because today, in “Cabaret,”
On stage was Alan Cumming.

Born to play this role as M.C.
Of the Kit Kat Klub,
If he were sick, I’d hate to be
The guy called in to sub.

From wicked grin to dimpled smirk
To knowing, coyish wink,
He let us in all on all the jokes,
Delighting in the kink.

Though “Cabaret” has been produced
For years on loads of stages,
I’m oh-so-lucky that I saw
The M.C. for the ages!

The More You Do a Thing

The more you do a thing, you’ll find,
The better that it gets.
By slacking off, it’s obvious
That you will have regrets.

Developing a skill or else
Rehearsing for a show,
It’s repetition that you need
To blossom and to grow.

Commitment and determination
Are the surefire keys
To open up potential,
Though to varying degrees.

For only those who give their all
Will bask in their success,
While slackers’ outcomes will belie
The efforts they profess.

Around the Bend

The icicles have melted;
The snow drifts lost some height.
We took a walk this afternoon
To bask in late-day light.

My jacket was unbuttoned;
I left my scarf behind.
The birds were chirping gaily
For there'd soon be worms to find.

It felt not like a respite
But more like a proper end
As we bid farewell to winter
Knowing spring's around the bend.

The Periphery

Many love the spotlight
And will grab it when they can.
Attention-seeking seems to be
Their life-long master plan.

Others bask in adulation
When it comes their way,
Though they’re just as happy
When they aren’t on display.

But a lot of folks are living,
Or at least from what I see,
An existence in the shadows
Or on the periphery.

As they’re standing on the sidelines
And observing from afar,
Opportunities drift by
Yet they are stuck right where they are.

It’s a mystery what holds them –
Varied reasons all their own –
But contented or resentful,
They’re insistently unknown.

Still, behind closed doors, just maybe,
Though they’re hidden from our sight,
They are nurturing some talent
That may never see the light.

The Hardware Man

I walked into the hardware store,
A place I’d never been before,
And knew that I would surely find
Exactly what I’d had in mind.

The narrow aisles were like a maze
Which led to crowded wall displays.
The owner, deep in heavy schmoozing,*
Left me to my own perusing.

Finally, I earned a glance
And asked him if he had, perchance,
A drainage trap or some such thing
To catch a slipped-off wedding ring.

He pointed to a set of shelves
(I guess we had to help ourselves)
And then went back into his chat,
Not budging from the place he sat.

The whole time I was on my search
He prattled from his counter perch,
Not caring if I would prevail
Or even if he’d make a sale.

I found my prize, he named a price
And handed me my merchandise.
His goodbye smile said, “Good for you!
You found it, like I knew you’d do!”

*conversing

Reaching for the Light

In the waiting room, the plant
Sat near the windowsill.
Purple leaves were nodding
Like they had their own free will.

Their skinny stems supported
What were leaves split up in threes;
All were dancing to the music
From the radiator breeze.

Outside the sun was shining
Though the day was brisk and cold.
That brightness drew the plant
And like Svengali, had a hold.

For every leaf was straining
To get closer to the light.
I wondered if they’d loosen up
When day turned into night.

I guess we’re not so different
‘Cause it’s natural to yearn
For whatever makes us cozy
And it’s to that source we’ll turn.

Hamantaschen

A festive Jewish holiday
We celebrate today,
When children dress in costumes
And much merriment holds sway.

An evil man named Haman
Tried to have the Jews all killed.
The king, whose wife was Jewish,
Saw that deed was unfulfilled.

Since Haman wore a certain hat
Triangular in shape,
We eat three-cornered cakes to honor
Our too-close escape.

Called hamantaschen, they’re delish
And filled with fruit or “mun”
(Which translates into poppy seeds,
And that’s my favorite one).

The Purim story’s read each year
And Haman’s name is booed,
But afterwards we nosh,
With lots of hamantaschen chewed.

Commemorating history
With something we can taste
Takes a little of the bitter
And with sweetness it’s replaced.

Exceptions

Exceptions disregard the rules
Like neither’s “i” and “e”
Or smokers who refuse to quit
And live to ninety-three.

Cops who park illegally
As if they were allowed
And those who pass the velvet ropes
That won’t admit the crowd.

Parents who refuse vaccines
For reasons none too clear
And A-list folk for whom a table
Seems to just appear.

There’s an expectation that
From rules, some will depart;
Exceptions, though, remind us that
What’s fair plays little part.

Walking on Ice

Walking on ice is not very nice;
In fact, it’s not pleasant at all.
So here’s my advice, be sure to think twice
Before you go out, or you’ll fall.

But if you must go, be sure to walk slow
Or you will end up on your rump;
For ice isn’t snow and will fool you although
You may think that such danger you’ll trump.

It’s much better to stay very far from harm’s way
Or to put it much clearer, inside;
If you thus disobey what the weathermen say,
Then all sympathy you’ll be denied.

A Write

I’m sitting in my writing chair
And staring into space.
The page is empty – there is nothing
Even to erase.

I’m tapped out of ideas right now
And way too pooped to pop.
At least I’ll get a few lines down
Before my eyelids drop.

It would be wrong for me and you
To skip this poem tonight,
So I will post it just because
Two wrongs require a write.

Farewell to February

I bid farewell to February,
Month of ice and snow.
No one living in the north
Is sad to see it go.

Although it is the shortest month,
It wasn’t short enough,
Sending us conditions
Most uncomfortable and rough.

I’m well aware that March might hang
On February’s tails
And thus the possibility
Of cold and snow prevails.

Yet psychologically, at least,
I’m thrilled to say goodbye.
The calendar says “Spring” in March
If Nature will comply.