Native Son

When cities lay claim
To those who gain fame,
They hope they'll attract lots of tourists;
But often their game
Gets flak or gets blame
From historians (most of them purists).

For no way everyone
Is a true native son
Though it's briefly where he once resided;
But when hype has begun,
Fans will certainly run
To the places the guidebooks have guided.

Still, of course I will bite
And I'll visit the site
Where a writer or artist created
And I'll smile in delight
Though it doesn't seem right
Since his other homes' fame might have faded.

Momentarily

The train is stopped and they announce
That we will be delayed
And momentarily we'll move;
We're stuck here, I'm afraid.

But "momentarily" is vague.
Exactly, what's it mean?
A minute, half an hour
Or some number in between?

The passengers start tapping feet
But no one says a word.
Compared to rants or raves, I guess,
The silence is preferred.

Then suddenly, ten minutes in,
The train begins to move
And builds up speed quite quickly,
Like there's something it must prove.

We're prisoners when we commute
And we must serve our time, 
A perfect opportunity
To write a little rhyme.

Walking Tour

When in a strange city
And everything's new, 
A walking tour is
Such a great thing to do.

Your guide will be local
And so he will know
All the ups and the downs
And the places to go.

In certain cool cities
Such tours may be free
Which, in this day and age
You'd think - how can this be?

But today in Chicago,
I took such a tour.
If you're clueless with newness,
Then this is the cure!

To Travel

To travel has ups and has downs.
It’s great to explore other towns
            But having to pack
            Can cause an attack
Of nerves, thus resulting in frowns.

The airport’s a place of such stress
The agents seem out to oppress.
            It’s needed, I’m sure
            To make things secure
But anxiety makes you a mess.

Yet getting to someplace that’s new,
Despite all the prep’s put you through
            Is sure to delight
            And being there might
Just reward you with joy that’s your due.

Minis

Mini products in the stores
Are lined up on the shelves,
All looking quite adorable
Beside their grown-up selves.

From salty snacks in little bags
To sweets of every type,
The smaller versions feed into
The “less is healthy” hype.

And sweet potato pie must have
Those marshmallows called “mini,”
‘Cause big ones melted on the top
Might make us less than skinny.

I used to dress in mini-skirts
When fashion deemed it wise.
At least these mini edibles
Look better than my thighs!

The Fine Print

Had a coupon, browsed the shelves
For longer than I’d planned
To find an item worthy of
The discount in my hand.

At last, when something caught my eye,
I joined the line to pay,
With just a few ahead of me –
Quite lucky, I would say.

The cashier gave my phone a glance,
The coupon on the screen,
And pointed out, in tiny print,
The dates I hadn’t seen.

“The pre-Black Friday sale begins
Tomorrow, not today.
You still want this?” he questioned
As I meekly said okay.

I felt like such a sucker
Rushing there to save a buck
When the writer of the fine print
Knew that I’d be out of luck.

Holiday Frenzy

Everyplace is crowded
As the holiday draws nigh
And frenzied shoppers roam the aisles
To buy, buy, buy, buy, buy.

Another side dish for the feast?
Some extra beer or wine?
A brand-new tablecloth?
(Although the old one still looks fine.)

A jazzy outfit so they’ll feel
Both festive and in style?
Perhaps some decorations
To make guests take note and smile?

The cashiers ring up purchases;
The buyers leave the store
But rarely head straight home because
They have to shop some more!

This November Feast

My friend makes everything from scratch
For her Thanksgiving meal
And all of it delectable
With savory appeal.

Her table’s filled with choices
From the soup to the desserts,
Though no one quite appreciates
The effort she exerts.

I’ve often been a guest of hers
And it was such a treat
To know that every bite would be
The best thing you could eat.

This holiday we’ll be at home.
The soup came ready-made;
The pies and corn bread also
Baked at Fairway,* I’m afraid.

My husband will prepare the rest.
His cooking is ambitious
And though it won’t be Susan’s,
It will also be delicious.

Of course at this November feast
The food is not what counts,
Despite the fact that we’ll devour
Copious amounts.

If you’re in luck, then family
And friends will join the ranks
Of all the people sitting down
Together to give thanks.

*a local supermarket

My Husband Wants Chicken

Certain holidays have foods
You cannot do without,
Like turkey on Thanksgiving
‘Cause that’s what it’s all about.

A vegetarian might try
To substitute tofu
Or any other recipes
For which I have no clue.

But otherwise, there’s no excuse
To do without the bird.
Just contemplating such a thing
Is patently absurd.

For the stuffing, yams and other sides
Without the proper fowl
Would cause all the guests (including me!)
To holler “Foul!” and scowl.

For My Age

I had a bone density test;
My skeletal health was assessed.
            I got the report;
            The numbers support
That my bone mass has slightly regressed.

Expected results for my age
Match the info I read on the page.
            They gave me a tip –
            I could fracture my hip
But most likely will not, by their gauge.

Though the mirror assures me I’m old,
It’s still shocking in print to behold
            That my bones are less dense,
            A direct consequence
Of the number of years I’ve been doled.

Alarming

My son lives in the suburbs
And his house has an alarm,
A common feature which, when used,
Works better than a charm.

Yet break-ins sometimes happen
When these said alarms aren't set.
The owners may slack off a bit
Or out and out forget.

It's slightly sad, to me, to think
That some can sink so low
They'd rob somebody's house;
To the alarmless ones they go.

I'm sure that break-ins are among
The crimes that are recurrent
But in the city, doormen beat alarms
As a deterrent.

Naptime

What can be done when the kids take a nap?
Clean up just a few of the toys;
Then load up the dishes, provided you don't
Make a whole lot of wake 'em up noise.

Catch up on your reading (the paper or book)
And work on the crossword a bit.
Answer an email or talk on the phone
Or stare off into space as you sit.

Of course, if you're somewhat obsessive, like me,
You can rein in your thoughts as they roam.
Find your notebook and pencil and maybe, voila!
If you're lucky, you'll finish your poem!

Julia

You’d know her by her crazy socks
And ever-present smile.
Her patience and encouragement
Defined her teaching style.

“I’ll never be allowed in Quilters’ Heaven,”
She would jest,
But anyone who’d seen her work
Was bound to be impressed.

She always asked us if we’d seen
Some show on BBC –
A movie from the 40’s
Or some type of mystery.

We never had, but she had hope
That one of us would catch
The latest Sherlock Holmes portrayed,
Of course, by Cumberbatch.

My home is filled with projects
That, if honest, I’d report,
Never would have been completed
But for Julia’s support.

She was more than just a teacher
For our lives she did enrich
And I’ll bet she’s up there watching us
Make every single stitch.

*my quilting teacher, whom I very much miss

A Truck Got Stuck

A truck got stuck; it seemed it struck
A tunnel’s too-short ceiling.
To passengers in nearby cars
Such news was not appealing.

I would’ve thought that trucker ought
To’ve known that tunnel’s measure.
For if he did, he’d know his stunt
Would cause some real displeasure.

Though they might cluck, those out of luck
Had no choice ‘cept for waiting.
Those minutes ticking by, I trust,
Were surely aggravating.

It isn’t nice to pay the price
For someone’s stupid blunder.
How bad the one who caused it feels
Is something that I wonder.

Sighting a Drone

As I walked along the river
In the morning, all alone,
I was taken quite aback
When I glanced up and saw a drone.

Since I’d never really seen one,
I was shocked as it sailed by
And I wondered what its presence
Possibly could signify.

Some protection for the mayor
Or surveillance of the park?
Much more likely, though, some amateurs
Who’d flown it on a lark.

It flew close to half a mile
Then it circled, heading back.
In my younger days, I might have feared
A UFO attack.

But I’ve heard of these contraptions
That can hover way up high
So I realized what it was
As it went zipping through the sky.

Yes, the future is upon us.
Of that, there can be no doubt;
But at least this flying object
Had no Martians stepping out!

The Fruit Plate

Once a month we gather
For some mah jongg and some lunch.
We rotate homes; the hostess
Makes a meal and snacks to munch.

But there is one tradition
That’s not open for dispute -  
Whoever hosted last must next
Provide the plate of fruit.

The plastic platter’s blue and it’s
Divided into parts
To separate the sweeter types,
Like melons, from the tarts.

The bearer chooses fruits she likes,
Arranged for their appeal.
We nosh on them before the game
And also with the meal.

Tomorrow it’s my turn to bring
The dish that’s piled on high
With varied fresh-bought produce,
So I’ll happily comply.

Magenta

Magenta was my favorite crayon
Out of all the hues.
When coloring, it always was
The first one I would choose.

I hadn’t thought of that in years
But just last week I made
A purchase of a sweater in
That same magenta shade.

A crayon color brought to life
Is such a sweet surprise,
A tribute to the crayon box
In my old school supplies.

Terror in France

A terrorist attack in France –
We know just how they feel.
To hear about it somehow seems
Both awful and surreal.

It took a long, long time to put
Our own attacks behind us
And now the news from Paris
Is a harsh way to remind us.

The city is on high alert;
Let’s hope it’s calm tomorrow.
For now, we must extend our hearts
To Frenchmen in their sorrow.

Forgetting

They say you won’t remember me
If I should die today.
You aren’t old enough quite yet
For memories to stay.

All the reading, rocking, holding,
All the tickles and the laughter
Are considered just a prelude
To the time that will come after.

If I disappeared tomorrow
I’d be gone without a trace
And, according to the experts,
I’d be easy to replace.

So I’ll try to keep on living
For I don’t want to depart
‘Til I’m certain there’s a piece of me
That’s Velcroed in your heart.

And the only one with access
To that piece of me inside
Is the one who would forget me
If I prematurely died.

Good Movie ~ Bad Play

We saw a good movie and saw a bad play,
Both of them seen on the very same day.

The movie was early, a 10 o’clock show;
When over, to Broadway by train we did go.

At 2 we attended a matinee;
It mostly was awful, the dancing okay.

The tickets were cheap so we blew off the cost;
Two hours of time we unluckily lost.

A dinner at home, though, had lots of appeal;
Not taking a chance on a maybe-bad meal.

Umbrellaing

When rain is in between
And neither drizzling nor pouring,
You venture out to shop or do
Some necessary choring

And then you must decide because
You find you’re on the spot –
The choice is often difficult –
Umbrellaing or not.

Umbrellas keep you nice and dry
But yes, they must be carried
And dealing with a dripping one’s
No fun when you are harried.

Yet if you don’t umbrella,
Getting wet is the result.
The choice is individual –
There’s no one to consult.

I watched the walkers out today
As drops fell from the sky.
The split was 50 – 50
For the folks who passed me by.

The non-umbrella users
Often wore a hat or hood,
Protecting just a bit of what
A good umbrella would.

But I concluded those without,
When wet from top to bottom,
Were not intent to prove a point –
They simply just forgot ‘em!

A Quiet Restaurant

To find a quiet restaurant
Is not an easy task,
Although some peaceful dining
Doesn’t seem too much to ask.

I wouldn’t let a pounding headache
Spoil an evening out
But every eatery we tried
Just added to my doubt.

The new Thai place had music
With a loud and pulsing beat
Which, added to my throbbing brain,
Would never let me eat.

The Mexican had salsa songs
To make folks want to dance.
The loudness factor meant I couldn’t
Give it half a chance.

The chicken place, my favorite,
Is as cozy as they come,
So much so that I thought I could
Ignore the thumping thrum.

I couldn’t, so we wound up
At the closest place to eat –
A new Italian restaurant
Across one measly street.

The food was good, the staff was great;
We’d both agreed to try it
And best of all, no music blared
So it was nice and quiet.

More Run

The afternoon was ebbing
When we made it to the park.
We didn’t have a lot of time
Before it got too dark.

But once we hit the grass, we knew
The fun had just begun;
As Henry put it perfectly,
T’was time to do “more run.”

A two year old has energy
I wish that I could tap.
Of course, it also helps to take
A nice long p.m. nap.

So yes, “more run” is what we did
(I follow his command)
And if I am exhausted now,
I guess you’ll understand.

We also had “more sing,” “more game”
“More book” and every one
Was wonderful but none could match
The joy brought by “more run.”

The Leaf Men

The leaf men came, their blowers on
And set the leaves to dancing,
The piles they left behind as proof
The season is advancing.

But while they worked, I watched and smiled
At Henry's thrilled expression.
The swirling clouds of brown and gold
Made quite a deep impression.

I shared in his excitement
For there's no way I could make
Such a spectacle of autumn
When I'm toiling with a rake!

A Poem a Day (G version)

A poem a day,
A poem a day,
I needs must write my poem today.

But today was full of play
And I can't keep the sleep at bay.

And so, I say,
I cannot stay
Up to write my poem today.

Instead, I pray,
My son, today,
To write this night my poem a day.

- Geoffrey Bauer (on behalf of Ilene)
November 6, 2015

The Word of the Day

The word of the day is williwaw,
The coolest word you ever saw.
It means a sudden windy gust,
A bit of news to you, I trust.

I’d never heard it used before
But now I’ll try to say it more.
It also stands for a commotion;
Try it, if you’ve got the notion.

You’ll impress your friends or boss.
All will be at quite a loss
When a verbal blank they’ll draw
As you warn of a williwaw!

Face to Face

With busy lives, it’s often hard
For friends to keep in touch
And that might even be applied
To some we like so much.

An email or a text is nice,
A phone call better yet,
But face to face reminds us
What we never should forget –

That friendship can survive a lot,
Through any type of weather,
But it’s a joy when buddies have
The chance to get together.

A date for lunch or dinner
With some catching up the goal
Does some double duty, feeding both
The belly and the soul.

Picasso Sculptures

MOMA* has Picasso sculptures,
Most of them on loan,
Including several that collectors
Privately do own.

But most belong in Paris
At the famous art museum
Named in honor of Picasso;
You must journey there to see ‘em.

Still, the curator has gathered
All these pieces for display
And I had the opportunity
To visit them today.

I’m so grateful to the Modern
For affording me the chance
To experience these sculptures
Without traveling to France!

*Museum of Modern Art (New York City)

At the Koi Pond

The garden pond had lily pads
A’float and, yes, a’flower.
It was a lovely place to sit
And spend a peaceful hour.

Especially, ‘cause underwater
Swam a clutch of koi,
Whose mottled skin and flash of fin
Were eyefuls to enjoy.

When there’s a chance to savor
What a park may well provide,
It’s worth one’s while to follow
And let Nature be the guide.

The Runners

Fifty thousand runners ran
Or walked or limped or jogged;
Through the streets of New York City,
Past the cheering crowds they slogged.

In their singlets or their t-shirts,
Where their numbers were displayed,
There was fierce determination
In a colorful parade.

Though the winners finished quickly
Most would need all afternoon
And the finish line in Central Park
Could not appear too soon.

As I watched them and applauded,
They impressed me with their spunk
And I had the realization
That my own has somehow shrunk!